


The Pixie Stick Chronicles

by actualspacegrandm, QueerImagination (overanxiousManiac)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Steve Rogers, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Wears Snapbacks, Bucky can Sing, Closeted Character, Emotional Baggage, Hurt/Comfort, Inappropriate use of Aerosmith, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Multi, Sam Wilson is Beyond this Nonsense, Skinny!Steve, Slow Burn, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:57:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 115,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7278127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualspacegrandm/pseuds/actualspacegrandm, https://archiveofourown.org/users/overanxiousManiac/pseuds/QueerImagination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve frowns, sighs, and shakes his head. “He is intimidatingly attractive and very straight. It’s nerve-wracking.”<br/>“I wouldn’t bet on that.” Natasha tells him.<br/>“He’s all…buff and fratty.”<br/>“Steve, you’re stereotyping.” She gives Steve a stern look. “You know, I think he might’ve danced with you if you weren’t such a nervous wreck.”<br/>“Doubtful.”<br/>“Don’t be so quick to judge. You never know what could happen.”<br/>If he can’t get rid of this crush, Steve knows exactly what will happen.<br/>Complete ruination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get ready for some queer college nonsense.

Steve refrains from rolling his eyes as his mother spends half a minute straightening his clothes, tugging his collar straight, and brushing his sleeves down. Then, she licks her thumb and—to Steve’s utter dismay—drags it across the side of his mouth.

“Ma—come _on_.”

“Sweetheart, you had ketchup on your mouth. I can’t let you just _waltz_ in there with ketchup on your mouth.”

“ _Ma_.” Steve groans. “Seriously.”

Sarah Roger’s eyes leave her son and stare far beyond him, behind him. Tall brick buildings with wide, clear windows tower over them; the campus stretches for miles upon miles in every direction. There are at least fifty students milling around, with duffle bags slung over their shoulders and blue and white plastic bags on their arms. Shuttles breeze past with families on board, heading to the dormitories. The sun is bright, hanging high in the sky, and there’s not a cloud in sight. It’s the perfect day, and yet Sarah Rogers isn’t smiling at all.

“Steve—are you going to be okay here?”

Steve sighs, shaking his head and smiling at his mother, who’s treating this like his first day of kindergarten, and not of college.

“I’ll be fine, Ma. I’ll be okay.” Steve throws his lanyard around his neck before he bends down and picks up the last duffle bag from the ground, slings it over his shoulder. “I’ve got friends, you know?”

“I know.” Sarah touches Steve’s face again, sweeping his hair behind his ear. “Remember to take your medicine.”

“I know, Ma.”

“And remember to call home at _least_ once a week so that I know you’re alright.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And remember to call your doctor when you need a new inhaler—”

“—Ma, I got it. You don’t have to worry.”

Sarah’s eyes are glistening now and Steve immediately begins to feel bad for leaving her. The drive back to Brooklyn is long, and it’s such a long time for her to be alone. Steve can’t recall the last time his mother had ever driven alone for so long. But, before he has time to start feeling worse, Sarah kisses his cheek once and places both her hands on Steve’s cheeks. She flashes him a warm smile, one that almost brings tears to his own eyes. But he pulls it together.

“My baby boy,” Sarah whispers. “My little duckling becoming a swan right before my eyes, hmm?” She grins. “I am so proud of you, sweetheart.”

“Haven’t done a whole lot to be proud of yet.” Steve teases. But they both know that’s not true. He made it to college, on his own, despite every obstacle that held him back before—their money, his health—nothing had stopped him. He’d done plenty to be proud of.

Sarah kisses his cheeks again. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Take _care_ of yourself, Steve—you hear me?”

“I do.”

The car is empty. They’ve traveled up to Steve’s dorm room more than once, carrying up bags, boxes, and appliances. The elevators were too crowded and so Steve, being the impatient, stubborn person that he is, opted for the stairs. Three trips were enough to send Steve into a coughing fit and his poor mother into a worrying frenzy. She ended up digging his spare inhaler out of her own purse and forcing him to—embarrassingly—use it in the stairwell, while all the other students and their parents passed them by. Steve hoped to god that none of them lived on his floor, because he’d never be able to live this down.

Steve brings his mother into a tight hug, sighing into her strawberry blonde hair.

“I love you, Ma.”

“I love you.” Sarah speaks softly. Steve knows she’s crying and so he hugs her until she’s ready to let go. When she does, she ruffles her son’s hair gently and takes a deep breath, nodding once. “I’m going to leave now, before I can change my mind.”

“I’ll be home for Fall break, Ma. Less than 2 months.”

Sarah nods again. “Call, Steve. Don’t forget.”

Steve promises not to forget. He watches his mother drive off, keeps his eye on her little Honda civic until it disappears. He ignores the tugging in his chest as he walks off, duffle bag in hand.

The elevators are still packed and backed up, so Steve takes the stairs again. This time, he takes it slow, all the way to the fourth floor. He walks through the chaotic hallways, filled with moving carts, futons, refrigerators, and all sorts of things and people. Steve swiftly bypasses it all, squeezing by and darting toward his room.

Thankfully, his roommate had yet to arrive, so he still had time to organize his space. He starts by putting away all his clothes. His mother—bless her—had folded everything so neatly that all he had to do was place them in drawers. He hung up all his semi-nice clothes in the closet, but there wasn’t much. Steve makes his bed, hangs up his pride flag above his bed—hopes to god his roommate isn’t homophobic—puts up all of his posters from home—most of them are of David Bowie, because that man is a musical genius and Steve would be damned if he didn’t put those posters up. He makes sure to tack pictures of his mom to the corkboard above his desk, just to make the place feel like home. By the time Steve’s new roommate arrives, Steve’s already made himself at home.

The guy is dark-skinned, tall—much taller than Steve—and _built_ like a brick house. He’s dressed simply, in basketball shorts and a white shirt, much more casual than Steve’s attire.

“Steve, right?”  He says. He walks inside and outstretches his hand. Steve grasps it quickly and shakes. “I’m Sam. Sam Wilson. Nice to finally meet you, man.”

“Same here.” Steve replies.

Sam releases Steve’s hand and gives him the once over before he smiles. “Freshman?”

Steve feels like he’s been _had_. Immediately, he becomes flustered, shrugging his shoulders awkwardly. “That obvious?”

Sam points to Steve’s neck. “It’s the lanyard. You’re wearing it around your neck—it’s how they _know_.” Sam jokes, clapping Steve on the shoulder. Steve nearly buckles under Sam’s heavy handed touch. “How old are you?”

“Just turned 20 in July, actually.” Steve reveals. “Stayed home for a couple years after graduating. Took some classes online first.” He doesn’t tell Sam that he stayed home because he was too sick to go to college, but it’s mostly the truth. “You?”

“22, we’re not too far apart! You just look so young, dude.”

Steve shrugs. “Tried to grow a beard once. Didn’t go so well.”

Sam just laughs. “Ahh, I’m sure the girls will love the baby face thing you got goin’ on.” But then, Sam’s eyes drift up to Steve’s bunk, where the pride flag is hanging from the wall. “Or guys.” He adds.

“Whichever.” Steve blurts out. And that’s exactly how he comes out to his new roommate on his very first day of college.

Sam shrugs. “It’s cool man. Me too. And most of my friends.” He grins. Steve is immediately relieved.

“Good to know.”

“Just let me know if you’re bringing somebody home. Guy or girl—wouldn’t wanna walk in and ruin the fun, you know what I’m sayin’?”

Steve barks out a laugh and his face heats up even more. “Sure thing.” He manages that laugh even though he’s more embarrassed than he’ll ever admit. “So—where’s all your stuff?” he asks, delivering a swift change of subject.

Sam opens the door and drags in a laundry basket full of clothes, along with a black suitcase. “There’s more. My pal Riley is lugging some of it up now. I should probably get back down there and help him.” He chuckles.

“I can help, if you need it?” Steve offers.

Sam seems to take Steve in, then. All of his bones and awkward angles. Steve starts to feel uncomfortable under his gaze but then Sam nods. “Sure thing, man. Come on.”

The pair leaves their shared room and, thankfully, take the elevator to the ground floor. Steve follows behind Sam as they head back outside.

“Your first year at Whitewater U, huh? Should be an interesting year for you, pal. This place is pretty great.” Sam goes on to say. “What are you studying?”

“Undecided, right now.” Steve answers. He skips the part where he explains that although art is his passion, art doesn’t pay the bills, so either needs to find a way to make that happen, or do something different.

“You?”

“Social work.” Sam replies. “Got a pretty good internship lined up.”

“This is your junior year, right?”

“Sure is.” Sam answers. “Not a whole lot of juniors and seniors still live on campus but it’s really cheaper that way, in the long run. Plus, the army is covering most of my tuition.”

“You’re in the _army_?” Steve exclaims.

Sam chuckles and nods. “Yup. So is my friend Riley. That way, school’s all paid for and I only have to serve for a few years. Took the load off my family, you know?”

Steve nods. “I get that.” He says. He lost count of the amount of scholarships he had to apply for, just to afford to go here. He didn’t want his mother spending a single dime; she’d damn near spent her life’s savings just to pay for his medication and treatment when he was sick. There was no way that he was letting her pay for college too.

Sam’s friend Riley is waiting beside a beat-up, white Ford Focus, carrying a mini-fridge in his arms. Steve notices that he’s just as solidly built as Sam, which is pretty intimidating, to say the least.

“It’s about time!” Riley calls out. He blows his brown hair out of his face and that’s when his eyes land on Steve. “Who’s the kid?”

“Play nice, Riley.” Sam laughs. “Not a kid—this is my new roommate, Steve.”

Riley sets the mini fridge down and reaches out to shake Steve’s hand. His grip is firm. “I’m Riley, nice to meet you.”

“Same to you.” Steve says. When Riley lets go of Steve’s hand, Steve motions toward the car. “What do you want me to carry?”

Steve ends up lugging a suitcase upstairs, while Riley carries the fridge, and Sam manages to haul in a futon. Sam tells Steve that Steve can use his things whenever, and Steve is thankful because all he was able to contribute to the room was a microwave. Once they get to the room, Sam and Riley proceed to raise Sam’s bed to the highest post so that the futon can fit underneath, and since Steve’s bed is already high enough, they put the microwave on top of the fridge and move those things under. Sam contributes a rug—red and fuzzy, doesn’t match anything in the room—and Steve hangs up some Christmas lights that his mom thought would make his room look “groovy”. Sam puts up some posters and pictures on his side of the room and, once they’re finished, the room doesn’t look half bad.

“The color scheme is off.” Riley points out.

Sam rolls his eyes. “There is no color scheme, this is college.”

Riley leaves eventually—he, unlike Sam, has an apartment off campus, that he’s lived in for the last year.

“Let’s walk around campus,” Sam says. “Don’t want you to be cooped up in here on your first day! I can show you around and—Steve, man, put the lanyard in your back pocket for chrissake.”

“Oh—right.” Steve takes the lanyard full of keys and cards and sticks it in the back pocket of his jeans. Sam nods approvingly.

“Better.”

They leave their room and Sam takes Steve on an unofficial tour. Apparently, Sam used to be a tour guide. Steve can tell that he hasn’t lost his touch; he still knows the history of every building and has mastered the art of walking backward without running into anyone or anything.

“This is Reed Hall, where most of the freshman take their introductory classes. It’s pretty much a clusterfuck. You already took your prereqs, right?” Steve nods. “Good. You never have to go there.”

Sam points to a building in the far left corner. “That’s one of the all-you-can-eat places. Only go there on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and weekends. That’s North Hall—supposedly haunted. Doubtful. That’s Carey Hall, most of the science classes take place there. The Music building is about five minutes that way,” Sam points left. “And the Art building is about ten minutes that way,” He points right. “There’s a dining hall next to both of them because apparently, the artsy kids forget to eat—hold on, dude what are you doing?”

Steve is scribbling away in his notepad when he looks up to see Sam watching him.

“Um, writing everything down.” Steve answers. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Wow, were you a boy scout or something? Jesus, man. Put that away! Absorb! Like a sponge!”

Steve shoves the tiny notepad into his other back pocket and fights back the blush he feels creeping across his neck.

“You’ll never remember everything. This place is huge—learn as you go.”

They walk a bit farther and Sam tells Steve more about the campus, much more than he learned on his tour as a prospective student. Sam tells him where to find decent food, good places to study, and even tells him where the LGBT Resource Center is. Steve can tell that he is really— _really_ —going to like his roommate.

“And _this_ ,” Sam stops his backward gait, and motions to a long, vast line of identical houses. “Is Sorority & Fraternity Row.”

Steve takes a step back just to take it all in. The houses are enormous and are more like mini-mansions than anything else. The fronts of the houses are all held up by white pillars, and the fronts of the roofs are decorated with every Greek organization’s letters. Their respective shields adorn the doors, and their banners hang between the pillars. Even the grass seems greener here.

“Ever think about going Greek?” Sam asks.

Steve shakes his head. “Not really. It just seems like a lot of pomp and circumstance to me.” Steve freezes, fearing he’s said something out of turn. “You’re not one of them, are you?”

Sam doubles over laughing. “God, you say it like they’re aliens!” He cackles. “No man—no, I’m not Greek. Thought about it. Went to Rush. But it wasn’t for me.” Sam takes a deep breath, still stifling a laugh. “Though, Riley’s Greek. So don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Understood.”

Sam and Steve have lunch in the Student Union. There’s supposed to be some 1st Year activities going on but Steve’s opted to avoid that. Instead, he sits in the overcrowded Union with Sam, trying his best not to get too anxious around all these people. Steve’s not that hungry, considering all the junk he and his mom ate on the way down, but he eats a turkey sandwich anyway. Outside the Union, through the huge glass windows, he sees lots of the other first year students dragging their furniture—and their parents—across campus. He watches them closely and realizes Sam was right about the lanyard.

“So,” Sam begins. “How are you feeling about the place?”

Steve swallows his mouthful of food. “Honestly? Overwhelmed.” He shrugs. “But it’s the first day so the jury’s hung.”

“Once your classes start up, you’ll get into the swing of things, and it’ll be smooth sailin’ from there.” Sam nodded. “Got any friends here?”

Steve nods. “Yeah, a few. Some people from back home.”

“School’s pretty small—I might know ‘em. What are their names?”

Steve names them off. “Uh, Natasha Romanova, Peggy Carter, and Clint Barton?”

“Natasha—redhead?”

Steve nods.

“I’ve had a few classes with her. Hella smart.”

“She was our valedictorian.” Steve tells Sam. “Beat out our friend Peggy by less than a tenth of a point.” He smiles, remembering. “Probably wouldn’t know Peggy. She studied abroad last year. And Clint is just…well, Clint.”

“I’m sure I’ll meet them eventually if they visit you.” Sam says. “If you’re not busy tonight though, I’m hitting up a couple’a parties.”

Steve instantly shakes his head. “Parties aren’t really my thing.” He doesn’t actually know if they’re his thing or not, seeing as how he’s never actually been to one.

Sam just nods. “I get that. But, if you change your mind, you let me know. Here—let me give you my number.”

As they’re exchanging numbers, Steve finally checks his cellphone. To his surprise, he has about eight text messages. Six from Natasha, one from Clint, and one from Peggy.

_Nat:_

_(11:21) Steve, are you on campus yet? I want to say hi to your mom._  
_(12:11) You’re probably moving in. I’ll wait._  
_(1:39) Alright Steve I’ve waited long enough. Where are you?_  
_(1:42) I called your mom. She said she dropped you off forever ago. Did you get kidnapped already?_  
_(1:59) -_-_  
_(2:45) Steven Grant Rogers._

_Clint:_

_(2:01) dude where the hell r u_

_Peggy:_

_(12:00) Steve, if you’re not too busy after you’re finished moving in today, give me a call. I can’t wait to see you. So glad you’re finally here! xoxo._

“You sure are popular.”

“Nope, just in a lot of trouble.”

Once Sam and Steve part, Steve calls Natasha first because she’s clearly middle-name-mad at him.

“Nat, I’m sorry. Listen. I live in Moore Hall. I know—I’m sorry—okay—yes, that was really dumb—room 417.”

On the way back to his room—rushing so that he gets there before Natasha and her wrath—Steve gives Peggy a call. She offers to buy him breakfast tomorrow morning and he can’t refuse. He hasn’t seen Peggy in at least a year and a half and he misses her more than he’ll ever admit to her face. He’s more than happy, just knowing that they’re in the same country and the same state now.

Steve gets to his room, catches his breath—with the help of his inhaler—and not a minute later, there’s a knock at the door. He unlocks it and Natasha barges in with Clint in tow. Both of them are wearing white and blue Whitewater University t-shirts.

“Sorry Nat.”

Natasha glares at him. “You have a phone, Steve. Use it. Like normal humans use their phones.”

“Dude she was middle-name-mad— you can’t do that.”

“I’m sorry. The sorriest. I’ll never neglect my cell phone again. Look Nat—I’ll even give you your own text tone.”

“Don’t be an asshole, Rogers.” Natasha reaches out and grabs Steve by the shoulder before pulling him into a ridiculously tight hug. He’s suffocating and she couldn’t care less. “All grown up. A college man.” Natasha teases.

Clint gently taps Steve’s shoulder with a closed fist. “Neat room. Who’s your roommate?”

“Sam Wilson.” Steve answers in a muffled voice, while being crushed by Natasha’s arms. She’s been working out. He notices.

“He’s alright. I approve.” Natasha finally releases him. Steve gasps dramatically. “Seems like you’ve made yourself at home.”

“What’s in the fridge?” Clint asks.

“Nothing, yet.”

“No food—no booze, nothing?”

“Clint, I just got here. And no—I’m not 21, I can’t drink.”

Natasha smiles. “Oh honey.”

That night, Natasha makes sure to buy Steve a case of Bud Light and she tells him that he will _absolutely_ be drinking the whole case on his own and that they are _absolutely_ going out tonight whether he likes it or not because this is opening weekend and it is tradition.

Steve, knowing that he can’t say no to her even if he wanted to, just texts his new roommate.

_to: Sam W._

_hey its steve. i guess i actually am going out tonight? so. you know. if you wanna meet up or something._

Less than a minute later, he gets a reply.

_Sam W:_

_Oh hell yes!!!!!!_

**___________________________________________________________**

They pre-game in Natasha’s dorm room. She’s drinking straight from a bottle of Maker’s Mark, taking it to the head, without even wincing once. Clint’s babysitting a bottle of Yuengling, and Steve’s on his third bottle of Bud Light when he starts to feel fuzzy. He doesn’t drink. Sure, he’s had the occasional glass of wine or champagne, he’s even shared a beer with his mom once or twice but this is something entirely different. It’s like a race to see who can drink the fastest and get the drunkest. He’ll probably lose the former but win the latter. There’s music playing softly, some techno or dubstep or something, but Steve can’t decipher it.

“C’mon Stevie, finish up. You’ve got three to go.” Natasha orders as she paces her room, twirling a bottle in her hand. Steve looks up at her from the floor where he sits and he laughs.

“Natasha, what has college done to you?” Steve jokes. “You used to be so…much less of an alcoholic.”

Natasha shrugs. “I’m not even drunk yet.” And she takes another drink from the bottle of whiskey. “I’ve experienced opening weekend twice already and I know for a fact that there’s no way to get through it sober, so drink up.”

Steve finishes off the beer and tosses it into the trash bin behind him. Clint, who’s on the floor beside Steve, reaches into Natasha’s mini fridge and grabs another bottle. He cracks it open for Steve and hands it to him.

“This’ll be fun. Trust me.” Clint tells Steve.

Steve rolls his eyes. “The last time you said that, we all ended up stranded on Coney Island with no money, no shoes, and no phones to call our parents.”

Clint shrugs. “I’m a terrible gambler, what can I say.”

Steve concentrates on drinking. His hands are unsteady and he _cannot_ spill beer on his clothes before the night even starts. He’s wearing black jeans and a form-fitting white shirt, nothing too fancy, but it would definitely show if there was beer all over it. He takes a sip of beer and leans up against Natasha’s bed-frame, sighing tiredly.

“No sighs!” Clint exclaims. “Only beer.”

“I’m tired.” Steve groans, realizing he might be a little bit more than tipsy.

“That’s just the alcohol talking, buddy. We’ll get some jungle juice in you and you’ll feel like you’re on top of the world.”

Steve, who doesn’t want to be on top of anything but his mattress, just puts the beer to his lips and keeps drinking. Luckily enough, after Steve finishes his beer, Sam texts him to ask him where he’s at and Steve thanks the _entire universe_ for an excuse to leave and get out of having to drink two more beers. He throws the fourth empty bottle onto the floor and Clint hoists him up from the floor. As soon as Steve stands, he has to use Natasha’s bedpost to steady himself because he immediately feels woozy, like his legs are made of Jell-O.

“Alright!” Natasha cheers happily, setting her bottle down a little too loudly onto her desk. That’s about all they have to show for her state of sobriety.

“My face is so warm.” Steve sighs. “And I have to pee—Nat, what’s the bathroom code?”

“Come _on_ ,” Clint laughs. “You can’t break the seal yet, Steve. No!”

They drag Steve out through the back door so that the RA’s and the Desk Clerks don’t get a load of the drunk underage skinny kid.

“Steve, where’s your roommate?" Natasha asks as they walk through campus. The sidewalks are full of students, everyone milling around in huge groups, talking loudly, laughing, and some just belligerently drunk. Steve finds it amusing and so he laughs, but it’s high pitched and _totally_ unlike him so he tries to stop himself before he makes a fool out of himself.

“He said he’s off campus.” Steve tells her. “Says he’s at some…Greek fraternity house? I thought those were _on_ campus?”

“Those are their housing units.” Clint explains. “No alcohol allowed in those houses, so it’s mostly freshman. Your buddy Sam is at a frat house.”

“Did he say which one?” Natasha questions. Steve takes out his phone and nearly throws it at her. She rolls her eyes. “You’re definitely a lush, my friend.” She scrolls to the bottom of the text thread and reads Sam’s last message to Steve. Her eyes widen in amusement. “Sigma Delta house.”

“He’s with the _Delts_?” Clint nearly shouts. “That’s…alright then.”

“Do these Greek people have some significance that I’m not aware of?” Steve’s voice is loud in Clint’s ears—and he’s already wearing a hearing aid so honestly, there’s no need to shout. “Are they bad people??”

“No,” Natasha answers. “Their parties are just…well, historically, every party they throw gets shut down by the cops.” She smirks. “Should be fun.”

Steve, who has no idea what he’s getting into, just shrugs.

“Okay whatever but I really gotta take a leak so can we stop somewhere?”

They end up stopping at a bush because Steve is a five-year-old when he’s even the smallest bit drunk.

Together, they leave the campus and travel down the residential streets. They don’t even need the address to the house, because the music is loud enough to be heard three streets away, and the huge white house has enormous, maroon and white Greek letters propped up in the front yard, surrounded by empty beer cans, and lawn chairs, and a mass of people. Caution tape surrounds the house and Steve isn’t sure if it’s to keep people out or in. Natasha leads the group, grabbing onto Steve’s hand as she drags him through the crowd and enters the house. He keeps his head down, not making eye contact with any of the people, but he hears Natasha saying “Hi” over and over again, so she must know a lot of them. When they get inside, Steve’s senses are assaulted. The air is hot and humid and smells like sweat, weed, and beer. There’s a cloud of smoke hanging in the air and Steve—the asthmatic—can already feel a tickle in his lungs. Good thing he brought his inhaler, as dorky as it is.

Natasha leads Steve all the way to the back of the house, where there is less standing, more dancing, and far more alcohol. There’s a huge cooler on the floor filled with purple juice and floating fruit. Red solo-cups are scattered across the counter. Clint grabs three and fills them up with the mystery punch in the cooler, and hands one to both Steve and Natasha.

“Drink.” They tell him in unison.

Steve drinks. It tastes just like kool-aid. He knows that there’s alcohol in this, but he can’t taste it at all. That can’t be safe. He keeps drinking anyway, eats some of the fruit out of his cup, and starts looking around. The house is _packed_ , wall to wall. The living room is devoid of furniture and there are people jumping up and down to the bouncy pop-song blasting through the enormous speakers on the kitchen floor. There a group of five guys dressed in maroon and white, all laughing, shouting, and taking shots of vodka on the kitchen counter. Steve doesn’t get a good look at them before he hears shouting coming from the other direction.

“Steve Rogers—my man!”

Sam—who smells distinctly of rum—envelops Steve in a crushing hug, nearly knocking his drink out of his hand.

“I didn’t think you’d actually make it, man. I know you said you’re not the party type!”

“Yeah,” Steve replies as Sam releases him. He holds up his half empty solo-cup. “This helps.”

Sam laughs. “Don’t drink too much of that. You’ll regret it in the morning.”

“He’s already eating the fruit.” Natasha points out, with a shit-eating-grin on her face. “He’s a goner.”

Sam makes an “ouch” face before clapping Steve on the back. “God speed.” He chuckles. “Hey, I’ve got some friend’s you should meet. Don’t go anywhere, alright?”

Steve eyes the crowd and shakes his head. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

Sam disappears into the crowd and Steve takes another drink. He leans up against the kitchen counters because _now_ he is surely drunk and just needs _something_ to lean on. Natasha discreetly pours half of her cup into Steve’s, fruit and all, and he barely notices. What he does notice, however, is the change of song in the house. Some slow 90s R &B tune starts playing and all the guys dressed in maroon and white—all the _frat boys_ —shout in excitement. They start heading to the floor and, instantly, girls are all over them. They start dancing, all grinding up on one another, but Steve’s eyes focus in on _one_ guy in particular.

He’s dressed in white shorts, a white and maroon striped V-neck, and has his brown hair pulled up into a bun. In one hand, he has a bottle of beer, and in the other, the hips of the girl who grinds her body all over him. He has a lazy grin on his face as he watches her move against his crotch, and the way his body rides against hers, in complete and utter sync, is almost _sinful_. He doesn’t miss a beat, just keeps grinding against her, rolling his entire body in time with the music. At one point, the girl has him pinned against the wall, his arms are resting behind his head—those _biceps_ —and he’s got this Cheshire-grin on his face. Steve feels like he should definitely _not_ be watching this. He feels like he’s _intruding_ even though they’re in public. And who the hell does this in public?? Steve knows that his mouth is wide open but he’s in shock and has lost all control of his facial muscles. But seconds later, he knows he’s made a terrible mistake by watching them, when the guy just happens to look over at him. Right into his face. Right into his eyes.

And he grins at him.

Steve turns around so fast that he nearly falls down. Clint catches him by the shoulders and starts laughing.

“Woah, little guy.”

Steve shakes his head and just dips his cup into the cooler full of purple stuff that could actually kill him. He takes the whole cup to the head until it’s empty. Natasha snatches the cup away and tosses it into the sink.

“That’s enough. I’m not holding your hair back while you yack.”

Steve’s whole face is on fire. All he can think about is his eyes. _Whoever_ he is. Steve doesn’t ever want to turn around and see those eyes again.

“Finding a bathroom.” He tells Natasha and Clint, yelling over the music. Natasha nods and mouths “Don’t get lost” before he leaves. Steve pushes through crowds of people sandwiched together and gets his shirt all wet with other people’s sweat before he finally makes it to the bathroom. He unceremoniously walks in on two girls making-out against the shower. One girl, very drunk with long brown hair, says “Hi I’m Darcy” before hugging Steve and dragging the other girl out by the hand. Steve can’t even bring himself to care. He walks into the bathroom, closes the door, _locks_ it, and sits down on the closed toilet.

He looks up at the ceiling and his head is spinning. Or the room is spinning. He can’t really tell which is which.

Steve closes his eyes and holds his head in his hands, trying to breathe and become less drunk.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but he does know that the longer he sits there, the drunker he feels. And now there are people banging on the door, wanting to use the bathroom. Steve gets up, unlocks the door, and manages to squeeze past the hulking guy who rushes to the toilet and doesn’t even close the door before he whips it out to pee. He shimmies his way through the crowded hallway again but when he gets to the kitchen, his friends aren’t there. Immediately, Steve starts to panic. He grabs at his jean’s pockets, searching for his phone until his hand lands on the hulking mass in his back pocket. He unlocks it and reads the first text, thankfully, from Natasha.

_(1:07) Stevie where are you? Been a half hour. Can’t find u. Kidnapped?? We are outside with ur buddy sam._

Steve looks at the time. It’s 1:10am, not long after Natasha’s text was sent. He pushes his way past the people in the living room and the people blocking the front door until he’s standing outside on the porch—and thanking the universe for fresh air.

“Steve! Hey!”

He turns around to see Sam standing with Natasha, Clint, and one other person.

“Hey, this is the friend I was telling you about!” Sam shouts. “Come over!”

Steve wants to run. It’s the same guy from before, in all his muscle-y, stupid, gorgeous glory. Steve watches him push a stray strand of hair behind his ear before he smiles—no, smirks—and waves Steve over. He takes slow, deliberate steps toward the group. Natasha pats Steve on the back, telling him “Stop getting lost and answer my texts” before Sam introduces his terribly attractive friend.

“This is my pal Bucky. This is his party.” Sam says, speech slurred ever so slightly.

The guy—Bucky—laughs and shakes his head. “Not _my_ party, Wilson. It’s my frat’s party.” Steve could’ve figured that out. He’s wearing the same stupid colors that are plastered all over the house. Up close, Steve can get a good look at the guy, and it is so unfortunate that he is far more attractive up close. His muscles ripple underneath the tight V-neck he wears, and the scruff on his face is almost endearing.

“James Barnes. Friends call me Bucky. Steve, I’m assuming?” he holds out a hand for Steve to take.

Steve feels his stomach churning. He feels like he’s on fire.   

He shakes Bucky’s hand. “Yeah, Steve Rogers. Nice to…nice to meet you.”

“Did you have enough to drink there in the kitchen?” Bucky asks.

Steve’s face starts heating up again. Either Bucky’s just being polite or he really, really did see Steve watching him from the kitchen.

“Plenty.” Steve answers. His head is swimming. All the voices around them sound muffled, like they’re all underwater. This Bucky guy is still smiling at him and his stupid teeth are so perfect that it would’ve made Steve angry if he didn’t feel like he was dying already. “Thanks for the party. I mean the drinking—no, for the drinks. The drinks.”

Bucky smiles, this time way less smug. “It’s our signature drink. Glad you liked it.”

“Yeah I—” Steve stops, taking a deep breath. “’S great.” He manages. His stomach is _killing_ him and he’s sure that his turkey sandwich, and everything he’s drunk tonight, is about to make an appearance.

“Stevie, you alright?” Natasha asks. Steve immediately shakes his head. She hops off the porch ledge she was sitting on and puts her arms around Steve’s shoulders. She flashes a charming smile at both Sam and Bucky. “We’ll be right back.” And she leads Steve off the porch. She pushes through the crowd of people and walks Steve clear down the street until they’re far enough from the house and close enough to a heap of bushes. She positions Steve in front of the bushes and starts rubbing his back.

He vomits immediately.

“That’s right. Get it all out.” Natasha rubs circles into his back, patting gently. “Good boy. Just like that—careful, watch your shoes.”

Steve heaves and heaves until there’s nothing left in his stomach but acid. His hands are on his knees and he’s panting and shaking like he just ran a marathon. He’s sweating, his mouth tastes _terrible_ and he can only assume that his breath smells even worse. He’s still dizzy but at least his stomach is empty, without a trace of beer or that purple-death-drink.

“All done?” Natasha calmly asks.

“I think so.” Steve says, trying to catch his breath.

“Wanna go back?”

Steve shakes his head

“Wanna go home?”

Steve nods.

“Okay. I’m calling Clint. Use your inhaler.”

Steve takes two puffs while Natasha beckons Clint. Surprisingly, Sam tags along with Clint, offering to walk Steve back to the dorms so that Clint and Natasha don’t have to make a cross-campus walk. They head back toward the campus together, Steve stumbling along with Sam’s arm across his back. When they get to campus, they part at the middle, Steve and Sam heading East while Natasha and Clint head West. Natasha tells Steve to call in the morning and Sam says he’ll remind him. Sam nearly carries Steve all the way back and Steve feels so guilty.

“I’m so-so-so sorry, Sam. We just met today and—well look at me!”

Sam barks out a laugh. “No worries man, it’s cool. I commend you for making it that long. I told you that stuff was dangerous!”

Steve groans. “I shoulda listened.”

When they get to their dorm, Sam tells Steve that he has to pretend to be sober for a total of three minutes when they go to check in at the front desk. Steve musters up all of the sobriety that he can and does his best not to stumble and slur his words when the RA asks for his ID. Once they’re out of the RA’s line of sight and in the elevator, Steve leans against the wall and visibly gives up.

“Almost there, man. Don’t die on me.”

“I just need a bed.”

They get upstairs and into their room and Sam makes Steve sleep on the futon, because there’s no way he can climb up into his bunk. By the time Sam’s covering Steve in blankets and setting the trash can next to the futon, Steve’s speaking nonsense.

“Tell your friend, Blinky—”

“—Bucky.”

“Tell your friend _Bucky_ that I’m sorry I was rude. He was talking to me and I just left. Almost threw up on his stupid boat shoes.”

“Barnes was pretty drunk, Steve. I doubt he’ll remember it in the morning.”

Steve gets quiet then, sighing. Even drunk, he kind of wants Bucky to remember him in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pastels & Snapbacks: A Love Story  
> Find me on tumblr: queerimagination.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The working title for this fic is still "a dumb college au for gay superheroes" so.

Steve wakes up at 8am when his alarm sounds off. He nearly tosses his phone against the wall because the sound is so _offensive_ to his sensitive, hungover ears. When he opens his eyes, he sees a number of things on the floor: the trash can—empty—a half-eaten slice of bread, his cellphone, a bottle of water, and his wallet, which has a yellow sticky note on it that says “Call Natasha”.

Sam is a saint.

Steve calls Natasha. She sounds so perky over the phone that it makes him hate her.

“Normal people get hangovers, Nat.”

“You should’ve been drinking water.”

“It was my _first_ night out.”

“True,” Natasha says. “I’ll take better care of you next time. Meaning tonight.”

“Natasha, no.”

“Steve, don’t be a baby. Take some ibuprofen and go back to sleep—you’ll be fine when you wake up.”

Steve wishes that he _could_ go back to sleep, but he promised to meet with Peggy for breakfast at 9 and it’s already 8. He’s got a splitting headache, his shirt has vomit stains on it, the smell of alcohol is seeping out of his pores, and he feels like he wants to die. He wants to sleep, but he can’t disappoint Peggy. So, Steve drags himself off the futon, gets up on his feet, and tries to remember where he stowed away all the towels, soap, and shampoo. Just as he’s setting everything out on his desk, there’s a knock at the door. Steve pushes his hair into an acceptable angle before opening it, because he can’t imagine who’d be knocking on his door at 8 in the morning, but he at least has to look like a functioning person.

When he opens the door, a girl with brown hair, green eyes, and deep red lipstick stands behind the door frame. She’s got a clipboard pressed to her chest and a wide grin on her face.

“Good morning Steve—I’m your RA, nice to meet you!” She announces perkily. “I’m Darcy!”

Steve narrows his eyes a little and tilts his head. “We’ve met, actually.”

Darcy pauses. She stares at Steve for about three seconds before the horrible realization hits her.

“Aw _shit_.” She drops her arms to the side, clipboard slapping her thigh. “Listen, dude. You can’t tell anybody about that. Not the whole kissing-the-girl thing but the whole drunk-at-a-party thing.” She loudly whispers the last part. “I could lose my job. Not supposed to be at parties with residents.” She groans, frowning.

“Um…”

Darcy motions for Steve to get into his room and she comes in, shutting the door behind them both. Steve is taken aback by her abrasiveness but he doesn’t have time to think about it before she starts talking.

“Listen—Steve, right? This is literally my last year as a student and as an RA and I need this job. So, if you can do me a favor and pretend like you never saw me at that party, I’ll pretend like you’re not an underage drinker, and we can carry on with our pleasant RA-Resident relationship.”

“I’m not gonna tell anyone—who would I even _tell_?”

“Pretend it didn’t happen. Please.”

“Okay, alright, pretending! Got it!”

Darcy releases a huge sigh. “Thank _God,_ ” she says. “I’m a professional. Okay.” Steve thinks she’s just talking to herself now, but he doesn’t say anything. She shoves several slips of paper into his hands. “The red one has your bathroom code, the blue one lists all the dates for the floor meetings, the yellow paper is your roommate agreement—just check yes on everything, you both sign it, then slip it under my door—the green one is the schedule for opening weekend and the white one is your welcome letter with all my information. Got it?”

Steve nods nervously, holding the papers tight.

“Good!” Darcy smiles. “I’m in room 401 if you need anything at all! Don’t forget to attend some of the opening weekend activities!” She rushes out before Steve can say anything else.

He doesn’t know if he should be afraid of her or not.

Steve skillfully avoids room 401 on his way to the bathroom. He puts in the four-digit code and opens the door, walking inside. To his right are four sinks, and four urinals. To his left, a row of stalls, and straight ahead, a row empty showers. Immediately, Steve feels uncomfortable because he’s never had to share a bathroom before. In high school, he shied away from the locker room when the other guys were in there, for several reasons. He’d never been that confident about his body, for one, and he also just found the idea of communal bathrooms to just be unsanitary. Germs are, historically, not good for Steve Rogers.

“College experience my ass.” He grumbles, still grumpy and very much hungover.

He carries his shower caddy into the shower, sets it down, gets undressed, and turns on the water. The immediate spray is ice cold and Steve cries out, jumping backward and nearly slipping. He catches himself against the wall and curses, squeezing his eyes shut when his head starts ringing. This is, undoubtedly, the worst he’s felt in a long time.

After his failure of a shower, Steve scurries back to his room with a huge towel draped around his waist. As he’s getting dressed, his phone goes off, alerting him of a text, and he knows it’s Peggy.  She tells him to meet her at the student union, where there’s a nice breakfast café. He texts back a quick “be there in 15” and proceeds to throw on the first things he pulls out of his dresser: a band t-shirt from a band he doesn’t even listen to anymore and a pair of ratty old jeans that his mom has been trying to get him to throw away for years. He doesn’t even have time to style his hair, which is much longer than he’d like it to be, and soaking wet.

Steve rushes out of his dorm room, wet hair and all. When he finally arrives at the café, he’s only 3 minutes late, which is record time for him.

When he sees Peggy, she looks just as perfect as she always has. Her chestnut colored hair is pulled back into a neat, elegant bun. She’s wearing a coral sundress and soft, red lipstick that compliments her skin. She has always been so put-together—Steve doesn’t know how she does it. Especially at 9 in the morning. He regrets his outfit altogether because he completely pales in comparison to her. However, when her hazel eyes land on Steve, her entire face lights up and he forgets that he’s badly dressed, because he’s just happy to see his friend.

“Steve!” Peggy calls out to him, rushing toward him with her arms outstretched. She pulls him into a tight embrace and Steve ignores the pounding in his head as she laughs into his ear. “I’m so happy to see you!”

“I’m happy to see you, too.” Steve tells her, grinning. “It’s been too long.”

Peggy left for college at 18, much like the rest of Steve’s friends. She completed her first year at Whitewater University, but for her second year, transferred back to her home in London to do a year abroad. She came back for her junior year, just in time for Steve to start, and Steve couldn’t have been happier when he found out that she’d be back.

They take seats at a small, round table. “Seemed like an eternity, really.” Peggy tells him. “It was nice to be close to home, but I know I’ll be ready for another adventure come the end of this semester.”

“Where to next?” Steve asks.

“Brazil.” She grins. “I’ve got to brush up on my Portuguese this semester, in preparation.”

Steve shakes his head, still smiling. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. You always are.”

“Less about me please, more about you. How are you liking it here? How was your first day?”

“Well,” Steve begins, feeling a blush creep along his cheeks as he recalls last night. “I caught up with Natasha and Clint and ended up drunk at a frat party.”

Peggy’s red mouth falls open as she stares at Steve in complete awe.

“None of it was purposeful.”

“You aren’t wasting any time!” She laughs, throwing her head back. “Steve, oh my! What would your mother think?” She teases.

“She’d probably drag me back to Brooklyn.”

Peggy keeps laughing, covering her mouth now to stifle the sounds. “ _Steve_ , you were here for what? Twelve hours?”

“Something like that.” Steve sighs. “It was a really, really bad choice. My new roommate basically carried me back. Tucked me in and everything.”

“What an angel—I’ll have to meet this one.” Peggy grins. “Looks like you’ll fit right in around here. Pretty soon you’ll be wearing Bermuda shorts, boat shoes, and polos with the collar up.”

“Peggy, you have no faith in me.”

She shakes her head. “Your first night, Steve. Your _first_ night.” When a waiter comes to their table, Peggy orders Steve a tall glass of water and something from the menu called “Drunk Breakfast”, and Steve’s embarrassed because, Christ, he’d been _wasted_. He remembers the whole night, and especially remembers Sam’s friend—James?

No.

Bucky.

Steve definitely remembers _that_. The blush on his cheeks deepens as he recalls the absolutely wicked way that Bucky danced. This is a memory that’s definitely going to be stuck in his head forever.

“Oh come now, Steve—there’s no reason to be embarrassed. Everyone has their fair share of drunken nights!”

Steve just smiles and nods, keeping the truth to himself.

They chat excitedly, both filling the other in on their class schedule. Peggy double majors in International Studies and Pre-Law and Steve doesn’t know how she does it. He could barely handle his 9 credits of online classes last semester. How she manages to double major and _still_ get perfect grades is beyond him. Steve, on the other hand, is taking it slow this semester. 4 classes, 12 credit hours. He’s taking Intro to Art Criticism, Drawing I, Women’s Studies (because he needed a perspectives class) and Spanish I (because his language credit never transferred over from the stupid community college in Brooklyn). Steve hoped he could stay on top of things; he could definitely do it, as long as he didn’t have any more nights like last night.

When the waiter brings their food—crepes for Peggy, and a monstrous plate of sausage, pancakes, toast, eggs, and oatmeal for Steve—the conversation is lost as they dig in. Steve orders a coffee too, something to wake him up and at least keep him going until he has a chance to sleep a little more.

“We’ve all got to get together—you, Barton, Natasha, and I—I haven’t seen either of them since I left.”

“They’re still the same. Troublemakers.” Steve shovels a forkful of pancakes into his mouth, chewing slowly. “I missed them, though. Missed all of you.”

“Missed you too, Steve.” Peggy smiles, holding her warm cup of coffee against her lips as she smiles. When Steve looks up at her, he smiles too, takes in all of her beauty and grace for the second time today. He remembers why he fell in love with her, back in high school, why he’d been completely gone on her. Still, years later, Steve can’t understand why a girl like her had ever fallen for a guy like him.

They dated senior year of high school. Steve had been head-over-heels for Peggy since ninth grade, but he’d always been too scared to ask her out. But the summer before his senior year, he mustered up the courage to ask her out on a date (with the help of some pep talks and cheerleading from Clint and Natasha). Peggy said yes, and Steve took her to Coney Island. He managed to not throw up, and that was an accomplishment. A month later, they started dating and stayed together that whole year. They were prom dates, even made “Most Likely to Get Married” in the yearbook. And Steve had believed that, too. He’d wanted that.

But when Peggy left for college, things began to change. Communication was sporadic because of her busy schedule, Steve kept getting sicker and was, consequently, less available. They grew apart, and yet grew to love one another in a way that was much less romantic. The break up was amicable, because they both saw it coming but wanted to stay friends nevertheless. When Peggy was in Europe, they Skyped and wrote letters. She sent Steve all sorts of souvenirs and he drew pictures for her, of all the things she described to him in the letters. He followed all of her travels on social media and made sure to stay updated. What they have now is good, if not better than what they had before, and Steve is glad for that.

**___________________________________________________________**

Steve spends the rest of the early afternoon asleep in his bunk, dead to the world. He takes two ibuprofen tablets and sleeps off his hangover. He’s completely conked out until Sam returns, slamming the door just hard enough to wake Steve.

“Shit,” Sam curses when he realizes Steve’s in the room, and rustling around under his blankets. “I’m sorry, man. Go back to sleep.” He whispers.

“’S alright,” Steve’s voice is muffled by his pillow. He pulls out his phone and checks the time. It’s a little after 1pm. He groans. “I still feel like shit.”

“Yeah, I figured you would.” Sam chuckles. He sits down at his desk, setting down a water bottle. Steve peeks over the bed railing and sees that Sam is all dressed in athletic wear.

“Did you go to the _gym_?”

Sam flexes his biceps dramatically. “This body ain’t gonna work itself.”

“Were you or were you not drinking last night?”

“Yeah, but Gatorade and water exist man. You gotta hydrate.” Sam shrugs. “This ain’t my first rodeo; was that your first time drunk or something?”

“No,” Steve groans. “Just my first time being _that_ drunk. I mean I’ve had the occasional beer. Wine at home with my mother. But nothing like _that_.”

“Aw,” Sam grins. “You really _are_ a freshman.”

“Well, I couldn’t really drink much.” Steve blurts out. And he wishes he hadn’t. Because he isn’t ready to have this whole conversation with his brand new roommate. He hates telling people simply because he hates being pitied.

Sam looks up. “How come? Strict parents?”

Steve sighs and shakes his head. “No, my mom is pretty laid back. I was just…I mean, well. I’ve always been pretty sick. But the last few years, the years I spent at home, I was _really_ sick. And alcohol would’ve just interfered with my treatment. So I couldn’t drink.”

Sam just nods. He doesn’t press Steve for more information, just accepts what he’s given.

“Well. This is going to be a hell of a year for you then, huh?”

Steve laughs and shakes his head, resting it on his pillow again. “I’m never drinking like that again.”

“That’s what we all say, and then we’re back at it again the next night. Speaking of,” Sam looks up at Steve. “Heading to the bars tonight. You in?” Steve looks like he’s about to protest but Sam rolls his eyes. “Dude, you can drink ginger ale for all I care.”

Sam is trying to be his friend and it’s actually pretty nice of him, seeing as how Steve is already such a handful.

“Sure, why not.” Steve tells him. “Might as well make the most of this weekend.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear!”

Once Steve drags himself out of bed, he and Sam head out. Sam tells Steve that they should go to the opening weekend football game, and Steve agrees because he’s trying to get in as many of these college experiences as he can. He’s not a huge fan of football—or sports in general—but he’s already paying tuition for this place, so he might as well get the full effect. Steve changes into a pair of nicer jeans and the only Whitewater University t-shirt that he owns—compliments of his mother—and they head to the stadium.

From their dorm room, the stadium is about a fifteen-minute walk. On their way, Sam points out monuments here and there and gives Steve the history on them.

“Your tour-guide is showing.” Steve jokes.

Sam shrugs. “This campus is full of cool, weird history, dude. Like, for instance,” Sam points ahead. They’re walking down a path that leads to an opening, where two paths diverge and surround a round, flat cement statue. Sam leads Steve over and points.

“It’s the seal,” Steve observes. “I saw this on my tour.”

“Right, but did you get the _legend_ , though?” Sam asks. Steve shakes his head. “Okay, so—legend has it that if you bring someone to the seal at midnight, on a full moon, and ask them out, you’ll be together like, forever.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “What are you, a hopeless romantic?”

“Why yes, actually. I am!” Sam laughs. “Cynical, much?”

“So I’ve been told.” Steve chuckles. He walks over to the seal, runs his fingers along the design. The metal is cool to the touch. “You really believe in this stuff?”

“It’s a nice concept,” Sam says. “A happy thought.” He shrugs again, beckoning Steve forward. “Come on—don’t wanna be late for the game.”

At the stadium, Steve and Sam find decent seats. When the game starts, Steve actually gets into it. Maybe it’s Sam’s enthusiasm, or maybe it’s the fact that their team is actually _winning_ but he finds himself completely enthralled. Standing up, cheering, cursing the refs for bad calls—he’s all over it. Sam teaches him all of the traditional cheers and helps him learn the fight song on the fly. Eventually, two of Sam’s friends end up joining them. Riley—Steve remembers him from the other day—stands on Sam’s right side and greets Steve with a friendly smile and a handshake. The other guy’s name is Thor. Steve can’t figure out where his accent is from, but Thor is a foreign exchange student from some place Steve has never heard of. He’s blonde, far above 6 feet tall, and a hulking mass of muscle.

Their group is the loudest in the student section. They even get a shout out from the cheerleaders, and some t-shirts get thrown their way. Steve catches one and so does Thor, but they have to trade because Thor got the small and Steve got an extra-large.

After the game, Steve’s voice is hoarse but he feels amazing. Sam’s friends are really nice and they’re treating Steve like they hadn’t only just met him. He feels surprisingly comfortable around them.

Thor and Riley tell Steve that they too are heading to the bars tonight, and Sam tells Steve that he should invite his friends too. So, Steve texts Natasha and Clint. He thinks to text Peggy, but he knows that she’s never really been into the club scene. Not surprisingly, Clint and Natasha are down to accompany Steve and the others.

Steve and Sam head back to their dorm to freshen up. Later on, the group reconvenes in their room. Natasha and Sam are the first to arrive and Natasha ruffles Steve’s hair as she enters with a case of Bud Light in hand.

“Round two?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Not a chance.”

Sam overhears this and laughs, patting Steve on the back. “This guy has reserved himself to ginger ale and water for the night.”

“Boring.” Clint yawns. Natasha hands him a beer and Clint kisses the can dramatically before cracking it open. “Nectar of the gods.”

When Thor and Riley show up, they walk in with beer too.

If this is what college is like, Steve doesn’t think that he’s going to be able to keep up.

Everyone seems to get along well. At first, Steve is worried that Natasha and Thor might rub each other the wrong way, but they end up challenging each other to a drinking contest, so Steve knows that she likes him. They head to the bars together around 11, everyone a little buzzed besides Steve. Still, he’s having fun.

They go from bar to bar, having one drink at each, and Clint tells Steve “This is what the grownups call _bar-hopping_ ”. Steve doesn’t ask why Natasha and Clint don’t get carded. He figures that Natasha has some weird connection with the bartenders because that’s just the kind of person she is. And at every bar, he either has a water or a coke. He’s fine with it and his headache is finally gone, so he’s not looking to get another hangover.

At the fourth bar, called _Double Zero_ , they’re finally stationary. None of them are carded on the way in and that makes Steve nervous, but no one else seems to care or notice so he doesn’t make a big deal about it. The bar is dimly lit, but the lights inside give it a dark blue glow. Inside, there are spotlights, smoke machines, strobe lights—the works. Steve can barely hear anything over the loud pop song that’s pumping through the speakers. Natasha and Clint decide to head out to the floor to dance, leaving Steve, Sam, Thor, and Riley sitting at the bar. Thor, who’s closest to Steve, strikes up a conversation immediately.

“Steven!” He shouts over the music, louder than necessary. “You must tell me more about yourself! What brings you to Whitewater?” He asks.

Steve shrugs. “Nice campus—my friends are here. It was affordable and I heard good things!” He raises his voice as loudly as it’ll go. “Plus, there’s a good art program!”

“Ah yes! My brother Loki is in the Art History program here! He praises it highly.” Thor grins. He downs the rest of his mug of beer and happily slams it against the bar. “I’m sure you’ll be quite happy here!”

Seconds later, a dark-haired girl, who Thor immediately addresses as “Lady Sif” comes forward and whisks him away, rolling her eyes at the ridiculous nickname. Riley eventually leaves to dance, after trying to convince Sam, who swears up and down that he doesn’t dance. Riley argues, saying “If you were drunk enough you wouldn’t be such a stick in the mud!” but Sam just brushes him off.

“Having fun?” Sam asks, elbowing Steve.

Steve smiles and nods as he sips his water. “I am, actually. Your friends are pretty great.”

“So are yours. I really like that Clint guy!” Sam takes a sip from his Long Island as he continues. “Natasha definitely scares me a little but like, in a good way.”

Steve barks out a laugh, covering his mouth. “She gets that a lot actually.”

“I’m sure—hey! Oh, dude what are you doing here?!” Sam jumps up from the bar to greet someone, and when Steve turns around, he wishes he hadn’t. There, in fitting blue jeans and an annoyingly tight maroon V-neck, is Sam’s insanely attractive friend, Bucky Barnes.

“Where are your brothers??” Sam asks incredulously, dramatically searching for other people.

Bucky laughs softly and shakes his head. “I’m alone tonight; they’re all still very hungover from last night.”

“Sounds like someone I know!” Sam teases, patting Steve on the shoulder.

Steve smiles and laughs, albeit awkwardly. “I am officially not hungover anymore, for your information.” He looks over to Bucky to find that Bucky’s already looking at him. “That punch was potent.” Bucky is close enough to Steve that he doesn’t have to yell. He’s leaning against the bar, only a foot away from Steve, who is still seated.

“It’s supposed to be.” Bucky grins. “Glad you two made it home okay last night. You didn’t look so good.”

First impressions—trashed and queasy. Steve is really winning here.

“I don’t really drink.” Steve replies, holding up his plastic cup of water and mostly ice. “Last night was a first.”

“First time getting trashed or first time at a frat party?” Bucky asks.

Steve can feel himself blushing and he is eternally grateful for the lack of light in the bar.

“Both, actually.” He admits. “This is actually my first year here. Took classes online beforehand so I could bypass the prerequisites when I got here.”

Bucky’s mouth falls open in surprise and Steve tries to ignore his red lips.

“You’re practically a freshman! How old are you??”

“Twenty, thank-you-very-much.” He rolls his eyes dramatically. Bucky laughs and the corners of his eyes wrinkle as he smiles, a full smile with his whole mouth. “How old are _you_?”

“Turned twenty-one in March.” Bucky tells him. “This guy threw me a birthday party!” Bucky throws his arm around Sam’s shoulders and pulls him close. “What a pal, right?”

Sam laughs as he struggles out of Bucky’s hold. They playfully push each other back and forth until Sam says “Stop being an ass and I’ll buy you a beer” and Bucky is immediately placated as Sam leaves to flag down the bartender.

“So,” Steve starts speaking and Bucky immediately leans in closer. Steve takes a deep breath and swallows hard. “Uh, what year are you?”

“I’m a junior.” Bucky answers. “Pre-Med.”

“You must be pretty smart.”

Bucky laughs, almost bashfully. “Nah, I just try really hard.” He admits. “What about you? What are you studying?”

“Undecided right now. Leaning towards Art though, maybe?”

“So you’re an artist?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Now it’s Steve’s turn to be embarrassed. He’s thankful for the dark of the club because he is most definitely blushing.

“C’mon, don’t be modest about it!” Bucky exclaims, clapping Steve on the back.

Steve’s eyes widen and he nervously runs his hands through his hair.

“Well…my dad—he was an artist” Steve confesses, smiling to himself. “A real artist. And I guess it kinda rubbed off on me.”

Bucky nods interestedly, still grinning at Steve. “That’s really cool, man. Look—there’s this art festival downtown. It’s this Thursday—happens every year. Sam and I always go together, but you should come too.”

Immediately, Steve shakes his head. “No, no—I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You’re his roommate, dude. And he seems to like you, which means that I like you by association. Just come with us—it’s always a real good time.” Bucky is smiling pleadingly, and Steve feels like his knees are turning into putty. There’s no way that he can say no to this guy. It’s his first weekend of college and he’s already developed an irrevocable crush.

“Uhh, sure. Yeah, I-I’ll go, then.”

“Perfect.” Bucky grins, satisfied. “You should definitely see about joining some art clubs or something. I know the campus activity fair is on Wednesday, so maybe check that out?” Steve raises his eyebrows curiously at Bucky’s suggestion, and Bucky immediately ducks his head and laughs. “Sorry, sorry—I’m mother hen-ing you.”

“Only a little.”

Bucky laughs again. “I used to be an RA. We were trained to be stand-in helicopter parents.” He shrugs. “By the way, who do you and Sam have as an RA this year?”

“Uh, her name is Darcy.” Steve realizes he doesn’t even know her last name, but Bucky’s eyes widen and he lets out a short laugh.

“Darcy! I like Darcy!” Bucky nods. “She’ll be great, you’ll love her.” Steve doesn’t mention that he’s slightly terrified of her but he just nods along with Bucky.

Sam returns with two bottles of Blue Moon, one for himself and one for Bucky. In his other hand, he’s carrying a shot glass and he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face. Steve groans immediately.

“Steve, come on. Don’t be a Debbie Downer.”

“You’re killing me.”

“I bought this for you, out of the kindness of my own heart.” He sets the shot glass down and the blue liquid sloshes over the edge. “Also, it’s called a Pixie Stick and it’s cute, like you, so you should drink it.”

Bucky raises his beer and nods. “He’s got a point.”

Steve takes the shot and prays that there’s enough alcohol to make him forget that Bucky might have just agreed about him being cute. The sugary sweet liquid hits his tongue and he scrunches up his nose. Sam lays a hand on his shoulder.

“Buddy, we are going to get along so well.”

A seemingly popular song starts playing and people start flocking to the dancefloor in masses. Bucky’s eyes widen and he looks to Steve.

“Do you dance?” He asks.

Steve sputters embarrassingly. “Alone in my room, yeah.” And the corners of Bucky’s mouth twitch into a smile for a moment, before he’s bombarded by a very excited girl.

“C’mon, Bucky! Aren’t you dancing??”

Bucky nods and takes a quick sip of his beer. “Of course I am!” He lets her pull him off toward the floor, into the crowd. Steve will never admit that he is the _tiniest_ bit jealous.

“Loosen up, man.” Sam elbows Steve gently. “No need to look so stressed!”

“I’m good.” Steve tells him. He smiles for good measure. “Thanks for inviting me out, Sam. Really appreciate it.”

Sam waves his hand dismissively. “Man, we are gonna be stuck in a room together for a whole year. We might as well become friends sooner than later.”

Later, Steve _does_ dance, but only because Natasha drags him out onto the floor. She’s a lot more fun than he remembers, a lot less serious, but it’s good. Everything is good, tonight. The music, the stupid sugary shots, and new friends—things are _really_ good.

Again, Steve finds himself watching Bucky dancing. This time it’s goofy—jumping around, arms flying wildly, and completely carefree. Locks of his hair fall around his face, escaping his bun, and the colorful strobe spot lights seem to illuminate every strand. His friends—now even Sam and Riley—are all dancing wildly around him, smiling and laughing like they’re having the time of their lives.

This time, when Bucky finds Steve watching him, Steve doesn’t look away. Bucky waves him over and Steve goes rigid.

“What’s the matter with you?” Natasha questions, noticing that Steve’s stopped dancing. She follows his line of sight and her eyes immediately widen. “Well? You’re still standing here because?”

“Uh, I don’t know? I don’t know what he wants?”

“Neither of us are mind readers. Get moving.” Steve doesn’t move. Natasha tilts her head. “Steve?”

“I’m nervous.” He blurts out, words falling from his mouth unceremoniously. “That guy makes me nervous.”

“ _Steve_ ,” Natasha laughs. She takes his hand. “Don’t tell me you have a crush.”

“I do not have a crush. He just makes me nervous.”

“That is like the definition of a crush. Steve, come on—don’t be a baby.”

Natasha drags Steve across the dance floor to where Bucky and the others are dancing. Bucky has a different drink in hand, something dark and strong because Steve can already smell it. Bucky raises an eyebrow as he looks at Steve.

“Thought you only danced alone in your bedroom?”

Steve laughs anxiously. “That’s usually the case. I’m not a great dancer.”

“I think you were doing fine.” Bucky tells him. Steve glances around for Natasha, but she’s off to the side with the others, dancing with Thor’s friend Sif. No one is even relatively paying attention to Bucky, or to Steve. “You looked like you were having a good time!”

“Yeah,” Steve nods takes a deep breath and starts fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. “I just—I like dancing? I’m just not very good. So I get embarrassed about it pretty easily?” Steve groans internally—he can’t _believe_ he’s saying this. “You’re pretty good at it though.”

“You can thank Sam for that.” Bucky admits. “When we were younger, he told me that I wasn’t allowed to come out with him until I “found some rhythm”. And now, here we are.” He takes a sip of his drink; the ice cubes clink together in the glass. “If you ever need someone to teach you how to dance, you let me know.”

Steve’s mouth is dry and his hands are sweating. His heart is like a hummingbird in his chest.

“I—I’m gonna find the bathroom.”

He turns on his heel and walks away from Bucky as fast as he can, embarrassingly fast. He doesn’t notice the click of heels following behind him but when he finally reaches the bathroom, a manicured hand on his shoulder pulls him back before he can walk through the door.

“Are you running away from a boy right now?”

“Nat, don’t.”

“This is cute, Steve. Real cute.” Natasha pulls Steve around the corner, away from the bathroom. “Admit it.”

Steve sighs heavily. “I’m not _running away_. I just needed to breathe. Somewhere far away from him.” Steve realizes that this isn’t helping his case. “He is intimidatingly attractive and very straight. It’s nerve-wracking.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that.” Natasha tells him.

“He’s all…buff and fratty.”

“Steve, you’re stereotyping.” She gives Steve a stern look. “You know, I think he might’ve danced with you if you weren’t such a nervous wreck.”

“Doubtful.”

Steve peeks out at the dance floor. He spots Bucky dancing with Thor’s friend, Sif. He takes a deep breath.

“Don’t be so quick to judge, Steve. You never know what could happen.”

If he can’t get rid of this crush, Steve knows exactly what will happen.

Complete ruination.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acrylics & Boat Shoes: The Greatest Love of All  
> Find me here: queerimagination.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> current working title: Welcome to TrashTown

Sam calls this week “Syllabus Week”. He keeps telling Steve that things will be easy for at least a month. Steve is alright with that, but he's ready to get a move on. Getting to meet his professors was great—he knew he was going to like face to face classes _much_ more than online—and his class sizes aren’t too bad, so he doesn’t have to worry about that either.

He ended up going to the campus activity fair, even signed up for a few organizations (particularly the “Art Society”) and got some cool freebies. By the end of the week he has collected at least seven Whitewater University T-Shirts and now and can literally wear one every day of the week if he wants to.

That Thursday morning, Steve calls his mother. He knows she takes the late shift at the hospital on Thursdays, so her mornings are free. He’s excited to talk to her, but when she answers the phone, her tone is less than amused.

“I’ve been waiting by the phone for a week, Steven.”

“Ma, c’mon.”

“You could’ve died and I would’ve had no idea.”

“I’m sure the university would’ve alerted you.”

“Don’t sass me. You might be hours away, but so help me, I will come down there.”

“I love you, Ma.” Steve smiles into the phone. “And I miss you.”

Sarah sighs on the other line and Steve knows that he’s won. “I love you too, Steve. But you have to call more often, and that’s the end of it.” Her voice perks up then. “How was your first week, sweetheart? Tell me everything.”

He does, aside from his drunken adventures with Natasha and Clint. He tells her that he got to have breakfast with Peggy because he knows just how much his mother adores Peggy. She secretly wishes that Peggy and Steve were still together, but they don’t talk about that. Steve tells his mom that he’s getting along well with his roommate, might’ve made some new friends, and that he thinks he’s going to enjoy his classes. Sarah is ecstatic and Steve can hear her joy through the phone. He really does miss her, wishes he could go home and celebrate his first successful week of college. Homesickness isn’t something he’s ever felt before, but when he hears his mother over the phone, it hits him pretty hard.

When they’re off the phone, Steve checks his texts and sees that he has two from Sam.

_Sam W._

_(2:03) hey man, art festival??_

_(2:03) barnes told me to ask if you were still coming. i had no idea you two talked about this. u stealing my friends, rogers?? Lol_

Steve had nearly forgotten about the Art Festival. He remembered that Bucky had invited him last week at the bar, but he’d forgotten and he sure as hell didn’t expect Bucky to have remembered. Steve ignores all of the feelings _that_ stirs up and texts Sam back.

( _2:25) yeah for sure. still in room. just got back from class._

Sam texts back immediately.

_(2:25) cool cool coming back with barnes see you soon_

Admittedly, Steve panics.

He throws on better, cleaner clothes. He styles his hair. He cleans up his side of the room and organizes his art supplies. He also does not admit to himself the real reason why he is doing this.

When Sam and Bucky arrive, Steve is floored— _again_ —by the levels of attractiveness that Bucky is able to reach. He’s got his hair pulled up in a messy bun at the top of his head, and he’s wearing an idiotic black bro-tank that says “Do You Even Lift Bro?” with stupid red Bermuda shorts and Steve has never hated an outfit so much in his life. But Bucky smiles when he sees Steve, and it melts away all of Steve’s irritation.

“Hey man, glad you still decided to come.” Bucky tells him.

Steve just nods, not trusting himself with his own words.

Sam gathers a few things before they head out together; wallet, satchel—because he needs a place to keep his sketchbook and pencils—a water bottle, and his cellphone. The walk to the downtown area takes about fifteen minutes from where they live. The whole way there, Sam and Bucky chat while Steve just walks alongside them. He can tell that they’re really close and he feels a little awkward being there with them. He likes not being alone, even if he doesn’t really fit in.

Once they arrive at the festival, though, all of Steve’s worries disappear. Immediately, he’s in his element. The festival stretches farther than his eyes can see (which is impressive, considering how strong the prescription for his contacts are). There are white tents under which vendors have set up their displays. There are paintings, drawings, sculptures, jewelry, and so much more. Students mill around between tents, stopping to admire the artwork. Steve, Sam, and Bucky filter into the crowd.

Steve gravitates toward a tent that’s showcasing a series of charcoal drawings. He strikes up a conversation with the artist. He explains each drawing to Steve, even shares some tips on technique, and Steve is beaming the entire time. He’s never been any good at drawing with charcoal, but his dad had been.

“You really seem to know a lot about this stuff.” Bucky points out.

Steve shrugs. “My dad loved doing charcoal drawings. I’m actually pretty terrible at them.” He laughs. “But, they’re kind of my favorite.”

Sam comes up behind Steve and pats his shoulder. “You gotta let me see some of your art sometime, dude.”

“Uh, I didn’t exactly bring any with me.” Steve admits. “But…there’s some on my Instagram so, you can follow me if you want.”

“Sweet.” Sam pulls out his phone and—surprisingly—so does Bucky. Steve gets two notifications, telling him that ‘bbarnesx’ and ‘swolewilson’ have just followed him. He quickly follows them both and absolutely does not watch them both as they scroll through his page.

“Is this _Tasha_?” Bucky turns his phone, showing it to Sam and Steve catches a glimpse of it. It’s a portrait he did of Natasha a while back; he’d used a picture of her from high school as a reference.

“Are you friends with Nat?” Steve asks.

Bucky nods. “Oh yeah, we took a Women’s Studies class together freshman year. Really hit it off. She’s like, crazy smart. Always comes to our parties, too. She’s a good time.”

Steve nods. “Yeah, she’s great. We went to highschool together.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow for a moment, before they widen and a huge smile breaks across his face.

“Oh dude, I think she told me about you before!” He nods, as if to solidify his own words. “Steve Rogers. She calls you _Stevie_.” Bucky laughs.

“Behind my back.” Steve wants to die. He can almost feel the blush creeping along his neck. “God, what did she tell you?”

Bucky actually _winks_ at him. “Only the good stuff.”

Steve ends up telling Bucky and Sam embarrassing stories about Natasha from high school (there aren’t many). He doesn’t tell them any of the Vault stories though, because Natasha might _actually_ fight him for that.

They travel through the festival, stopping under tents to examine and admire. Steve ends up buying a bracelet for his mother. It’s made of green and white sea glass, strung together with golden wire. Sarah has always loved handmade jewelry and Steve knows she’ll love it. He already can’t wait to get back home to give it to her. Sam buys handmade candles, telling Steve “these are contraband in the dorms but Darcy won’t write us up.” Bucky doesn’t buy anything, but he does spend a lot of time in a tent with a series of beautiful oil paintings, depicting the gradual progression of a sunset. Bucky’s eyes are so bright with interest and intrigue, and Steve can’t help but smile as he watches him.

Later, they take a break to grab a bite to eat. Steve and Sam have ice cream and Bucky gets fries, which he ends up dipping into Sam’s vanilla ice cream, much to Sam’s displeasure.

Together, they wander farther down the street until they reach a pavilion where a band—a local band, Steve learns—plays live music. Bucky starts dancing with fries in hand—where the hell did he get all this rhythm from?— and Steve makes it a point to look away because he is developing an unhealthy crush on a straight man and that never ends well. Ever.

“Having fun?” Sam asks Steve as he stealthily steals a few of Bucky’s fries.

Steve nods. “I really am. This is great, I’m glad Bucky invited me.”

“So am I. You guys get along pretty well—be careful, he might try to recruit you.” Sam laughs.

Bucky throws a french fry at him. “I will _not_.”

“You’ve been trying to get me to join your frat since the beginning of time.”

“You’d be _great_ , Sam—you’d love it.”

“I’m not into cults, no thank you.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and groans. “Here we go.”

“What? _What_? I’m just saying. A group of guys who all wear the same clothes, with secret ceremonies and chants, just sounds a little cult-y to me.”

“You’re such an ass. You wouldn’t understand.” Bucky waves his hand dismissively in Sam’s direction, then turns to Steve. “Listen, pal. If you ever want to know what it’s _actually_ like, talk to me. Not to this guy.”

“I don’t really know a whole lot about it in general.” Steve shrugs.

“Here, give me your phone.”

Steve hands it over without hesitation and Bucky starts typing away.

“So now I’ll have your number. I’ll text you and we can meet up, talk about rush, get dinner or something.”

Sam waves his hands wildly behind Bucky. “Steve, you are making a horrible mistake!”

Steve is having a hard time believing that Bucky just gave him his number.

Bucky just smiles. “Text me so I’ll have yours. And don’t listen to Sam. General rule of thumb.”

Steve nods dazedly. He texts a quick “hey it’s Steve” and then pockets his phone before he starts blushing like a schoolgirl again.

“Ugh, Bucky, stop trying to steal my roommate. He’s mine.” Sam jokes.

Bucky sticks his tongue out at Sam and he throws another fry at him. “Steve likes me too. Right? I’m _so_ much more fun than Sam.”

“Sam did walk me home drunk so, I gotta say, I do like him a little more.” Steve manages to say, without stumbling over his words and letting his nerves get the best of him.

“Oh come on, I would’ve walked you home.” Bucky smiles as he throws an arm around Steve’s shoulders and pulls him close. “Next time?” He laughs.

Steve’s blush has returned at full force.

“Next time.”

**___________________________________________________________**

The first three weeks pass, and Steve is downright exhausted. No matter what Sam said about the beginning of the semester being easy, Steve still ends up with twice the amount of work he expected and not enough time to even conceptualize it.

He hasn’t seen much of Nat, Clint, or even Peggy. His classes have taken over his _life_ and he’s not at all sure how it happened so quickly. The only person he faithfully spends time with is Sam, and that’s because they live within four feet of one another. That doesn’t count.

It’s Friday, Steve is sitting in his Spanish lecture, and he has admittedly given up all hope. He gathers his textbook and notebook and shoves them into his backpack. His Spanish I professor is still speaking to the class but his Spanish is… decidedly crap, so he just gives up on understanding and starts packing up. He never thought that Spanish I in college would be harder than every year of Spanish he took in high school.

When the lecture ends, Steve heads out of the classroom hurriedly. On his way out, though, he nearly trips over his own feet and actually knocks someone else off balance. He manages to catch the girl by the arm, but her messenger bag goes flying across the steps.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry!” Steve apologizes fervently and rushes down the stairs to pick up the contents of the girl’s bag.

She steadies herself and shakes her head. “It was an accident,” she assures him in a calm voice, in an accent that he can’t quite place. She kneels down and picks up her wallet and keys as Steve brings her bag and a notebook that had flown out.

“I’m really, really sorry. I’m usually not this clumsy—that’s not true, I’m always clumsy. Just—sorry? I said that already. I’m so sorry.”

The girl stuffs all of her things back into her bag and laughs softly.

“Really, it’s fine.” She says. “I have had my fair share of clumsy moments. Running into people all the time. Last week, I ran into a whole group of people because my nose was in my map.”

“That…actually happened to me too.” Steve laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you a first year?”

She nods. “Yes. Also, my first time in the states.” She shrugs. “I’m an international student.”

“Where are you from?”

“Sokovia.” She answers. “My name is Wanda. Yours?”

“Steve. Steve Rogers.” He holds out his hand and Wanda shakes it, metal bracelets jingling as she does.

“And where are you from, Steve Rogers?”

“Brooklyn. Few hours north of here.”

“I’ve heard of Brooklyn. In New York, right?”

Steve and Wanda leave the lecture hall together. Wanda tells Steve about her major—International Studies—and about her home, Sokovia, a place that Steve’s vaguely heard of. She tells him that she’s eighteen and that this is her first time out being this far from home. Her twin brother had come with her, but aside from that, she hadn’t really met anyone else.

“Why don’t we hang out sometime?” Steve asks. “We could study for Spanish. I’m actually terrible at Spanish, apparently.”

“I’m fluent.” Wanda smiles, albeit bashfully. “I’m sure I could help you.”

The two of them exchange numbers. Wanda’s dorm is only about a five-minute walk from Steve’s, which is great. He waves goodbye to her as she goes inside and heads back to his room. When he gets there, Sam is inside, lying on the floor with a social work textbook covering his face.

“I’m hoping to gain knowledge via osmosis.”

“I can see that.” Steve drops his backpack and plops down on the chair at his desk. “I made a friend. I think.”

Sam shoves the book off his face and a huge grin is underneath. “My lil’ baby is growing up. Week three and you’ve already got friends!!”

Steve laughs and rolls his eyes. “Well, first, I tripped over my feet and almost knocked her down. But _then_ we made nice.”

“Impressive, Rogers. Real smooth.”

“She’s gonna help me with my Spanish. Her name is Wanda and she’s an international student.”

“That’s actually really cool. I’m proud of you.” Sam grins. “You’re college-ing well.”

Just then, the door to Steve and Sam’s room flies open. Clint pokes his head in and wags his finger at Steve.

“You don’t lock your door? Poor choice, bud.”

Clint is followed by Natasha, who’s wearing a white cut-off and a pair of high-waist jean shorts. She has a slice of pizza in one hand and a water bottle in the other.

“What’s up, nerd?”

“Why do you have _pizza_?”

“I don’t know—someone was giving it away downstairs.” Natasha sits down on Sam’s red rug and Clint follows her. “Why are you inside? It’s like, 80 degrees outside.”

“I literally just came in from class.”

“He made a friend today too, so don’t be too hard on him.” Sam chimes in.

Natasha’s eyes light up, and she reaches out to pinch Steve’s cheeks.

“Look at you!” She teases. “Is this also someone you could possibly like, go out with?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Here we go.” He mutters, turning toward his desk. He’s been hearing this from Natasha since probably the first week of classes. Every day, she sends him snaps of attractive people on campus, with captions like “they could be THE ONE.” Steve has already exhausted his witty comebacks.

“Steve, you haven’t dated anyone since like, Peggy.” Clint points out. “And as beautiful and magical as _that_ was, it’s time to get back on the horse.”

“Literally, you don’t even need to date someone. Just, I dunno, find a friend-with-benefits.”

“Nat, no.” Steve sighs. “I am perfectly happy not doing any of that.”

“You are experiencing a two-year drought. You don’t mean that.”

Sam is cackling at his desk, doubled over in his chair. This is not the way that Steve wanted his roommate to find out that he hadn’t had sex in two years. In fact, this was not something that he _ever_ intended for Sam to find out.

“This conversation is over.”

“ _Stevie,_ ” Natasha sits up on her knees and grasps Steve’s shoulders, massaging them gently. “You’re so tense! You know what would fix that?”

“Natasha, please.”

“A nice, earth shattering—”

“ _No._ ”

Natasha, Clint, and Sam all dissolve into laughter. Steve decides that he hates them all.

“Look, man,” Clint tries to stifle his laughter. “College is like, the land of opportunity. So get yours, dude.”

Steve shakes his head. “I’m good, thanks,” he says.

Except… he’s not good. Not at all.

The two years he spent at home sick were the most painful years of his life. Every day was a battle to stay alive and not succumb to the number of illnesses that plagued his body. Back then, sexual contact was the _very_ last thing on Steve’s mind. But now that he’s healthy and his body works the way it’s supposed to, it’s almost _impossible_ to stop thinking about it. Most of the day, he can’t get his mind off of sex. He masturbates in the shower almost every morning and night, sometimes when Sam is gone, and even once when Sam was asleep on the other side of the room. It’s like the minute he stepped foot on campus, his sex drive skyrocketed, and is now stuck at an all-time high. It is torture—pure, unadulterated torture.

“You’re a terrible liar, but I digress.” Natasha shrugs and lies down on the floor, taking a bite from her slice of pizza. “So, tell me about your friend or whatever.”

**___________________________________________________________**

Later that evening, Steve takes a trip to the Art building, which is clear across campus. Steve takes the shuttle because walking in this weather would probably end in a heat stroke induced collapse. The shuttle is packed, but at least there’s air conditioning.

When Steve reaches the Art building, he hops off and power-walks to the door while he checks his phone. 5:02. Only two minutes late. Hopefully it won’t be _painfully_ awkward to walk in.

He finds the room and when he walks in, there are only maybe seven people in the room, and they’re all crowded over a table of food.

“Oh hey, are you here for the general body?”

A really thin guy addresses Steve. His outfit is almost identical to Steve’s, except he’s wearing a green button down over his white t-shirt. He holds out a hand to Steve.

“Loki. The president, of sorts. Technicalities.”

Steve shakes his hand but squints at the guy as he tries to remember where he’s heard that name before. It’s the accent that gets him.

“Do you have a brother?” Steve finally asks.

Loki almost rolls his eyes. “You must’ve met Thor.” He sighs. “Yes, he’s my older brother.”

“You guys look nothing alike.”

“No, my brother is literally a God. Adonis. Trust me, I’ve heard it all.”

Steve laughs. “I met him through my roommate, Sam. He seems…fun.”

“Oh, loads.” Loki really does roll his eyes this time. “Come on. You should meet the others.”

Loki leads Steve over to the snack table and introduces him to the other students. Most of them are studying some form of art, but others are just people who like painting and drawing. Being in a room full of artists is a little intimidating, but they’re all so laid-back, and it makes Steve feel welcome. As time goes on, more students begin to pour in and the room starts to fill up. Loki spends a lot of time talking about the history of the group, some fun events they might want to host that year, and opens the floor for any suggestions. Steve makes a mental note to come to the next meeting with suggestions and much more to say.

In the middle of the meeting, his phone starts buzzing. He discreetly pulls it out to see a missed call and three text messages on his screen.

_Missed Call from Bucky Barnes_

_(5:59) just called ya_

_(5:59) well shit u already kno that u saw the missed call_

_(6:00) nt important. get dinner and tlk abt rush?? 6:30??_

_(6:00) also do nt talk to sam abt this he will nt let u come_

Steve’s stomach starts doing a weird thing and he ignores it. He texts Bucky “Sure, where?” before he loses all his courage. At 6:20, Steve leaves the Art Society meeting and heads to the West Cafeteria to meet Bucky. His heart is beating out of his chest the whole way there, and his palms are sweatier than ever before. One day, Steve is going to have to accept the fact that he has a huge crush on this guy. But today is not that day.

He’s standing outside, wearing basketball shorts, a plain white t-shirt, and a snapback that just says “LIFT” on it. Steve cannot stress enough how poor this man’s fashion choices are. Fortunately, when Bucky smiles at him, Steve forgets about his dumb outfit.

“Hey man,” Bucky greets him. “I’m glad you could make it!”

“Yeah, I mean—thanks for inviting me? I didn’t actually think you were serious about this.”

“Oh, what—did you think it was a ploy to get your number or something?” Bucky chuckles. Steve skillfully fights his blush, right up until Bucky slings an arm around his neck and says “Kidding, kidding!” as they walk into the dining hall.

They swipe in and immediately grab plates. Since it’s an all-you-can-eat cafeteria, they both pile food onto their plates before sitting down. Bucky, miraculously, manages to carry three plates to the table and Steve sincerely believes that he is going to eat every last bit of it, which is undoubtedly terrifying.

Bucky finds a small table at the back of the cafeteria, big enough for all of the plates and drinks to fit. When they sit down, Steve starts wringing his hands in his lap, wiping his sweat on his hands. His nerves are getting the best of him already, and Bucky has barely said a word.

“So what’s new?” Bucky asks, as he shovels a forkful of cheesy broccoli into his mouth.

Steve clears his throat. “Nothing? I mean. I joined the art club, I think. I think you have to just show up to join and so I showed up and…have now joined.” He’s babbling. He’s crashing. Burning. “Also, might have actually made a friend today, which is weird because I’m usually really bad at that.”

Bucky smiles as he eats. “Well, you’re doing just fine right now.”

 _No,_ Steve thinks, _right now I am doing terribly and about to sweat through my jeans._ He smiles despite himself.

“What about you?” Steve asks before shoving a forkful of pasta into his mouth.

Bucky, who’s got a mouthful of pizza now, shrugs his shoulders. He takes off his hat and hooks it on the edge of his chair before ruffling his own hair. He’s so gross and beautiful and Steve is _so_ mad at himself for having that specific thought.

“Trying to stay focused on classes. And on planning rush. _And_ on working enough hours.”

Steve laughs a bit. “Sounds like you’ve got a full plate.”

“Aw, you don’t even know the half of it. Don’t ever get a job on campus, if you can help it—you’ll be so much happier.”

“I’m on scholarship, so as long as I can keep my grades up, I won’t have to worry about much.” Steve admits. “It’s nice, not having to worry about money for once in my life.”

“I can sympathize.” Bucky replies. “I’m pretty much puttin’ myself through college. The res life job helps a lot, y’know, being a desk clerk or whatever. But the loans are still pilin’ high, especially without scholarships.”

“Did you have scholarships before this year?” Steve asks. Bucky nods once. “What happened?”

Bucky’s expression is tight when he shrugs again, seemingly cavalier. “Last year wasn’t so great for me.” Steve immediately senses that this is a sore subject, just by the way Bucky’s mouth tightens when he speaks, and by the way his body becomes just the slightest bit rigid. Steve instantly starts to feel like a huge jerk.

“Sorry,” Steve immediately apologizes. “I didn’t mean to—I mean, it’s none of my business.”

“S’alright pal, no harm done.” Bucky dismissively waves his hand and takes a bite of pizza. “We’re still like, level-one friends. You don’t get the tragic backstory until like, at least level seven.”

At that, Steve laughs—so does Bucky. The tension drains.

He starts telling Steve about Rush. Steve wants to ask him why it’s called “Rush” in the first place—why would people be rushing into this? — but Bucky’s going a mile a minute and Steve couldn't get a word in edgewise if he tried.

Then, Steve notices something that completely ruins his life: Bucky talks with his hands.

They are all over the place; first on the table, then he’s touching his face, then his hair, then making gestures in the air when he starts talking about the importance of brotherhood. He is so excited about everything he’s saying, about how exciting Rush is, about what it means to be a brother, to have a second family, and a home away from home. Bucky’s eyes are brighter than Steve has ever seen them; they are almost sparkling. His passion is infectious and Steve is completely enthralled.

It’s too bad though that he has no intention of becoming Greek. Like, ever.

“So... what do you think?” Bucky finally asks, after giving his literal recruitment speech.

Steve’s at a loss for words. Bucky’s eyes are still so bright and he’s still smiling so wide.

“I…listen— to be honest, I don’t think it’s for me.” Steve confesses, smiling sadly. “But you were _so_ excited about it, I just didn’t have the heart to tell you. I’m sorry, man.”

Bucky actually starts blushing then, and laughing. He holds his face in his hands, shaking his head. “ _Seriously?_ ” He chuckles. “Aw, shit. I get so carried away sometimes. What did it? Speech not convincin’ enough?”

“Very convincing. I’m sure you could recruit literally anyone.”

“But apparently not Steve Rogers.”

Steve smiles bashfully, hanging his head. “It’s not you, man. It’s me.”

“Steve, are you breaking up with me right now? We just became level-one friends. Too soon.”

Now, Steve is laughing harder than ever. Laughing to fight off the feelings of embarrassment that threaten to turn every inch of his skin bright pink. Bucky’s laughing too, a deep laugh that shakes his entire frame. And _God,_ Steve thinks, he has never seen a man this gorgeous in his life. The way his smile reaches all the way up to his eyes, which are absolutely full of light, and the way his dark hair falls at the sides of his face, and the he sweeps it behind his ear as he laughs—everything about him is just gorgeous.

“Shit, man—I owe Sam like ten dollars now.”

“You guys made a _bet?_ ”

“He started it! He said _‘I bet you ten bucks that Steve is smarter than that’_ so I mean, I guess he was right and also, this is a compliment on your part, pal.”

Steve chuckles and shakes his head. “You guys are awful—also, it’s got nothing to do with intellect. It’s just…a bit much, for me. Plus, it’s pretty expensive.”

“That’s true.” Bucky admits, rolling his eyes dramatically, making Steve laugh again. “It’s not the cheapest thing. Most of the student population is annoyingly wealthy, so.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to pick up on the pretentious vibes more and more every day. Everyone’s very, very rich here.”

“Well, that’s what happens when college becomes a luxury, but whatever.” Bucky takes a sip from his drink, eyes still on Steve. “So since you’re definitely _not_ going to join a fraternity, what do you plan on getting involved in? Oh! Did you get to go to the activity fair, like I told you?”

Steve quickly nods. “I did. Went to the Art Society meeting, like I said before. I’m also thinking about looking into the LGBT organization here. I can’t remember the name, though.”

“Oh, SAFE?” Bucky says. “It’s a great group. I went to a couple meetings with a few of my residents last year. You should definitely check it out!”

“That’s…actually really great?” Steve is immediately impressed. Bucky seems nonchalant about it though.

“I tried to be supportive. Plus, I learned a lot at every meeting. It was a win-win.” Bucky shrugs. “There’s a lot of cool opportunities. Don’t let yourself like, get bogged down by school an’ shit. You seem like the type.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“You’re servin’ me some real nerd vibes over here, pal.”

“Wow, you are so rude.”

“Let me guess—straight A student. Cub scout. Never skipped class a day in your life—am I warm or am I on fire?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You’re an asshole, that’s what you are.”

“Ooh, we’re calling each other names now? Level two.”

“Oh my god,” Steve rests his head in his hand. “You’re such a jerk.”

Bucky grins, leaning forward as he speaks. “And you’re an angry little punk. It balances out.” Steve spends far too much time staring at Bucky’s smile, and at his lips. Far more time than he’ll ever admit. “Listen—what are you doing tonight? You busy?”

“I have a couple drawings I need to work on, maybe study some of my Spanish…then—”

“Oh my god, Steve, it’s _Friday_ .” Bucky cuts in. “Fridays are not for homework. Friday’s are for _fun_.”

“I’m trying to be responsible.”

“Do that when you graduate.” Bucky shrugs, still grinning. “Come out tonight. You know, if you’re not knee-deep in Spanish, or whatever.”

Steve refrains from rolling his eyes. “You’re awful, _god_.” He shakes his head. “Out where? To one of your crazy frat parties? Because I don’t think I can handle another one of those.”

“Oh that was like, three weeks ago or something--you’ve recovered. We’ve had like, four parties since then.” Bucky informs. “And no, just downtown to the bars.”

“I’m not 21—  I can’t drink.”

“It’s cool, I’ve got you.” Bucky says. Steve raises a curious eyebrow. Bucky waves his hands in the air in circular motions. “Just come. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

“Alright, sure.” Steve says. “Is Sam coming too?”

Bucky shrugs. “Dunno, haven’t asked him yet.”

Steve’s breath catches. It hadn’t occurred to him that Bucky would ask him to come out before even asking Sam. Steve is smart enough, logical enough, to not read into this, but his illogical heart isn’t going to let him forget that Bucky Barnes actually wants to spend time with him. He can feel himself becoming visibly flustered all over again and tries his best to keep a steady voice and pace.

“Oh—okay, well. Yeah. Just tell me where.”

“I’m thinking _Haze_ —you probably don’t know where that’s at—”

“I’m a big kid, I can find my way.” Steve chimes in, albeit sarcastically.

Bucky chuckles. “See what I mean? So much anger in that tiny body,” he teases. “It’s on the corner of Main and 6th, you can’t miss it. The music’s good, the beer’s cheap, and it’ll be a real good time.”

“Just as long as I don’t get completely plastered again, I’m sure it’ll be great,” Steve tells him.

Bucky dramatically rests his hand on his heart. “I’ll take care of you, scout’s honor.”

Steve’s stomach is doing flips again. And he hates it.

This crush is probably irreversible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky probably owns a bro tank that just says "FRAT FRAT FRAT" tbh.  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's more queer college nonsense

When Bucky opens the door to his dorm room, Bruce is in his usual spot: at his desk, hunched over his laptop, wearing noise-cancelling headphones and an oversized WWU sweatshirt. He doesn’t notice Bucky’s presence until Bucky walks into his line of sight and waves at him. Bruce pulls off his headphones and drapes them around his neck.

“Hey,” he says. “Where’ve you been?”

Bucky hangs up his snapback on his bedpost. He plops down on the green beanbag on his side of the room and sighs while he sinks into it.

“I was at the West Caf, having dinner.”

“With Sam?” Bruce asks. Bucky shakes his head. “Your brothers?” He shakes his head again. Bruce swivels around in his chair to face Bucky. “I’m all out of options.”

“I have more friends than that, god.”

“Yeah but none that you like enough to eat with.” Bruce shrugs. “Who’d you go with?”

“Sam’s new roommate—Steve.”

Bruce nods. “Oh, yeah. Skinny blonde kid? I think I saw him in a picture with Sam from the opening weekend football game. I was wondering who he was.” Bruce wraps his arms around himself, folding his hands underneath his armpits. “So why?”

“I wanted to talk to him about rush.”

“And what else?” Bruce asks. “You’ve never gone to dinner with an interest. You all usually just herd them in like cattle and give them the whole “brotherhood” spiel.”

“We don’t _herd_.” Bucky grumbles. “And after I gave him my award winning speech, he tells me that he’s not even interested. And I wasn’t even mad. He’s like…a really nice guy.”

“Actually nice?” Bruce questions, skepticism clear in his tone.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Yes, actually nice. Not like, undercover asshole nice.” He sighs, then smiles contentedly. “He’s just… _so_ nice.”

Bruce’s eyes widen curiously. “ _Oh_. So is this like…a thing?” He waves his hand in the air. “Like, are you feeling things?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky quickly answers. “I mean, I’m pretty sure he’s…” His voice leads off and he waves his hand in a leading motion. “But I don’t know if he knows that I’m…”

“Bucky, you’ve gotta start using your words.” Bruce sighs. “There is an entire LGBT alphabet out there for you to use, you know.”

Bucky knows that there are plenty of words and terms for him to use in this situation, but he can’t bring himself to say them. If he says the words, then that makes this more real than wants to admit. But when he thinks about Steve…well, it almost gives him enough courage to say them. Steve has an uncanny charm about him, one that seems to bring out the best parts of every person he comes in contact with. He’s tiny, lanky even, and he’s as bony as all hell, but when he smiles, it lights up his whole face. He’s got a smile like magic—a smile that’d put the sun to shame. He’s polite, genuine, and he’s one of the few people who's able to get Bucky to laugh. _That_ in itself is a feat. Bucky likes being around him, and he likes that Steve seems to like being around him too.

“You know, Bucky—you’re allowed to have a crush.”

“I know.”

“On a guy. You’re allowed to do that.”

Bucky groans, sinking deeper into the bean bag. “I know, I just—not everyone _knows_. I’ve only told you and Sam. And after everything last year with—well, you know. I’m just…” Bucky throws his hands in the air, exasperated.

“Apprehensive.” Bruce finishes. “You’re being careful. I get it.”

“I still haven’t told any of my brothers.”

“You don’t have to do that if you don’t want to.”

“I…plus, it’s Sam’s roommate, you know? I should not have a thing for Sam’s roommate. That’s like…totally against the Bro Code.”

Bruce rolls up the sleeves of his blue WWU sweatshirt while shaking his head. “The Bro Code isn’t real and you can’t help how you feel.”

“I can _try_.”

“That never ends well—let’s search for a better, healthier solution.” Bruce sighs while Bucky tries to bury himself in the beanbag.

Bucky grabs a purple blanket from Bruce’s bed and covers himself with it. Such dramatics.

“Listen, I know you’re not ready to come out to everyone, and that’s okay. But, you know…try not to hide the good feelings. Those don’t come around often.” Bruce pauses, wheeling his chair to the other side of the room where Bucky is trying to disappear underneath the blanket. “And this guy—Steve—when you’re around him, are there good feelings?”

“So many,” Bucky tells him, voice muffled by the blanket. He peeks out and groans again, frustrated. “He’s funny, and handsome, and nerdy—but like, cute nerdy? He’s an artist and he’s terrible at dancing but he’s so adorable when he’s trying. Ugh. I’m making myself sick.”

“This is good,” Bruce smiles. “This is progress.”

“The first night I met him, I think he almost threw up on me,” Bucky admits. “Even when he was all pale and sweaty I still thought— _wow,_ you know?” He takes a deep breath and brings the blanket back over his face. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything, really.”

“I think I might be a little terrified.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’m not ready to be…open about this.”

“No one’s making you. You do it when you’re ready.”

“But, I really like this guy.”

“I know, Bucky.”

“I invited him out to the bars tonight.” Bucky sighs.  “I hope he comes.”

“If he comes, what do you want to happen?”

Bucky shrugs. “I don’t know? I just want to like…be around him?”

Bruce nods, still smiling. He grabs a pillow from Bucky’s bed and hands it to him.

“It’s a start.”

Bucky spends the next half hour underneath Bruce’s purple, fleece blanket, burrowed in the bean bag, worrying himself to death. He wants to hang out with Steve tonight; he wants to flirt with him and dance with him and just be _near_ him, but Bucky doesn’t want to out himself. Although his brothers are throwing a party tonight and shouldn’t be out, Bucky can’t be certain that he won’t run into one of them. He wouldn’t know how to explain things if they caught him dancing with another guy. They don’t know about _that_ part of Bucky.

When Bucky joined Sigma Delta during his freshman year, things were different— _he_ was different. The people were kind; they were genuine. That was what drew him in. Sigma Delta had felt like home for Bucky, who’d never really had the most stable home life. Sigma Delta was what he’d needed—stability, support, brotherhood, and friendship. But after last year’s catastrophe, Bucky had fallen so far; he’d grown apart from most of his brothers, and half of the guys he was closest to had graduated. He tried to reconnect with the newer members over the summer and it’d worked, for the most part. But he couldn’t tell them about what’d happened last year—he couldn’t tell them why he’d fallen off the face of the Earth, or that he’d been with a man and that things had gone completely awry. He couldn’t tell them about that part of his life because he was afraid.

Bruce had been there, and so had Sam. They were the only ones who knew the whole truth and, honestly, Bucky wanted to keep it that way for a while.

He hasn’t dated anyone since it happened. There were a few girls here and there, but they never stuck around. They always left after a few weeks and Bucky always knew why. He just couldn’t connect.

But Bucky knew it was safer, that way. Messing around with girls wasn’t significant—they didn’t hurt him. Not like _he_ had.

“So when are you heading out?” Bruce asks, now that he’s returned to his laptop at his desk. He’s tapping away at the keys, squinting at the screen because he’s not wearing his glasses.

“Sometime after eleven? I dunno. I’m gonna leave earlier so I’ll be good and drunk when he gets there.”

“Bucky, that’s not how we handle social situations.”

“Suddenly, I can’t hear.”

Bruce throws a stress ball at Bucky and hits him square in the forehead. Bucky picks it up, throws it, _misses_ , and Bruce just laughs.

“Alcohol will not solve your problems—we’ve talked about this.”

Bucky finally hops up from the beanbag. “Yeah but it’ll sure make it a hell of a lot easier to deal.” Bruce throws his hands in the air, giving up. Bucky is thankful for Bruce, he just doesn’t know how to say it.

Before heading out, Bucky makes it a point to get some work done. As much as he harped on Steve about Fridays being work-free days, he still has a load of work to finish. His Organic Chemistry class is already destroying him, and this is the second time he’s taken the class. He would’ve passed it last year, had his entire semester not gone to shit towards the end. Bucky tries not to dwell on that as he completes the assignment. He submits it, responds to a couple discussion board posts for his other classes, and finishes taking some notes from a journal article for his Biology course.

Afterward, Bucky takes a quick shower and spends a whole ten minutes obsessing over an outfit.  Finally, he frantically turns to Bruce, who just curiously stares at his shirtless roommate.

“Bruce, can I ask you a weird question?”

“Could I stop you?”

Bucky ignores his question and points to his bottoms. “Do these jeans look good?”

“What? Yeah, they look good. They’re clean—”

“No, I mean do they look _good_?”

“Oh,” Bruce says. “Bucky, I don’t know if I’m the person to ask,” Bruce pauses and nods quickly, waving his hand in the air. “You know what, they look great, pal.” His eyebrows go up and he motions to Bucky with both hands. “This is really something—you’re actually _caring_ about the clothes on your body, and not just throwing on a bro-tank. I’m…I’m impressed.”

“We are not doing this.” Bucky turns away and starts rifling through his dresser.

“Don’t be like that.”

“I can’t hear ya, pal.”

Bruce starts laughing but he leaves Bucky alone to dress. Bucky ends up throwing on a fitting black shirt, black sneakers, and pulls his wet hair back into a bun. Before he leaves, he remembers to text Sam to ask him to come downtown too. He leaves Bruce and ignores his final comment about how proud he is that Bucky is dressing like a grown-up.

Bucky heads downtown alone. The night is cool, now that the sun has set. Students are milling about, girls in large groups with linked arms, guys laughing loudly and running through the streets. Bucky is decidedly too sober so, at the first bar he comes to, he stops and has a drink: a very tall, very strong Long Island. At the next bar, Jack & Coke. And the next, Whisky Sour. By the time Steve finally texts him to ask where he is, Bucky is right where he needs to be.

When Steve arrives, he’s with Natasha. She smiles when she sees Bucky and touches his forearm gently. He’s known her for at least a few semesters now, and he knows that she’s not much of a hugger, but she always acknowledges him. She leans up and speaks into his ear so that he’ll hear her over the loud music.

“Are you as drunk as you look?”

Bucky laughs, shrugging. “Possibly.”

Natasha smirks and pats him on the back. “Good. I’ll buy you a beer.” She heads to the other side of the bar, and Bucky finally sets his eyes on Steve.

He’s dressed in a pair of dark blue jeans and a deep blue t-shirt that brings out the color in his eyes. He smiles sweetly when his eyes meet Bucky’s. Bucky watches the corners of Steve’s pink mouth turn up, and Bucky’s heart starts thundering.

“Hey,” He manages, trying to ignore the sound of his pulse in his ears. “You made it.”

“Of course.” Steve says.

“Thought you might stand me up.” Bucky jokes. Steve laughs, but Bucky still notices the deep flush on his cheeks as he does. Bucky clears his throat and motions toward the bar. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Steve nods once and tells Bucky that he can choose the drink. Bucky turns and waves down one of the bartenders. He buys a beer and three shots for Steve—Pixie Sticks. When Steve sees the bartender sliding the shots to Bucky, he immediately rolls his eyes.

“Not this again.”

“Oh come on, you like it.” Bucky grins. “It’s adorable.” _Like you_ , he leaves out. “This—then beer.”

Steve holds out his hand and Bucky gives him the first shot. Bucky watches as he throws it back, watches as his adam’s apple bobs up and down as the liquid slides down his throat. Bucky gulps, stares down at his beer and takes in a slow breath. He can’t watch Steve drink the others. This is torture.

Natasha comes back just in time with drink in hand. She hands a beer to Bucky and then goes to Steve and whispers something in his ear that makes his blush return. Under the lights of the bar, it’s pretty easy to see. Then, she ruffles Steve’s hair before waving to someone on the other side of the bar and leaving Steve and Bucky alone.  

Steve starts chugging his beer. He finishes it within seconds and sets it on the bar like it was nothing.

“Easy there, tiger.” Bucky’s eyes are wide with amazement. “Thirsty?”

“Just trying to catch up.” Steve laughs, almost nervously. He’s tugging at the hem of his shirt, a habit of his that Bucky’s picked up on—he’s definitely nervous. “Sam coming?”

“I texted him.” Bucky replies. “I’m sure he’ll show up. Until then,” Bucky hands Steve the beer that Natasha bought for him. “Drink up.”

Steve doesn’t protest.

When Steve finishes his beer, they travel deeper into the bar. A heavy techno beat blasts through the speakers, making the walls vibrate and the floors shake. Bucky and Steve post up on the wall, in a corner that’s not crowded by people jumping around and dancing. Steve says something but Bucky can’t hear him over the music, so he leans in closer. Steve’s skin touches Bucky, and his breath is warm against the side of Bucky’s face. Bucky can’t even concentrate on what Steve’s _actually_ saying to him, because he’s too busy obsessing over simple contact.

“Did you come here alone?” Steve asks. Bucky nods, not trusting himself to speak. Steve frowns. “I would’ve walked with you—you didn’t have to come all by yourself!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky says. “Just came down to get an early start.” He assures him.

“We can walk back together so you won’t be alone?” Steve offers.

Bucky nods, exhaling as he grins. “Yeah, I’d like that.” Bucky takes a good look around the bar. He doesn’t see anyone he knows—and thank _God_ all of his brothers are throwing a party right now—so he musters up all of his liquid courage and begs the question.

“So, do you wanna dance?”

**___________________________________________________________**

Steve is imagining things—he has to be.

Because Bucky definitely cannot be flirting with him.

Right?

So far, Bucky has complimented his hair, his clothes, and has made it a point to reach across Steve’s chest to touch his shoulder at least three times while they talk. Granted, Bucky has had a few drinks—although Steve’s not sure how many—but there has to be something more than that. Or, again, Steve could be imagining it all. Wishful thinking.

However, when Bucky asks him to dance, Steve knows that he can’t be making this up.

Steve stammers out an unsteady “Uh, yeah, sure” before following Bucky out onto the dance floor.

Bucky takes his hand and leads him out, far enough to be in the crowd, but still close enough to the edge. His hands are warm and Steve’s are sticky with nervous sweat. The alcohol is hitting him hard and he tries not to panic when Bucky finally turns to him with a lazy smile on his face. Someone dancing behind Steve bumps into him and he’s propelled forward, right into Bucky’s chest. Steve could _scream_ out of embarrassment when Bucky catches him with two strong hands. Steve takes a quick step backward, smoothing out his shirt as he apologizes vehemently.

“I’m clumsy, I’m sorry.” He says. “That was so dumb.”

“No, bro you’re fine,” Bucky assures him. His hands are still holding Steve’s arms. “You’re alright.”

When they start dancing, they’re ridiculously close, almost touching. Most of the time, Bucky’s eyes are on Steve, but every so often he glances around the crowd as if he’s looking for someone. But Steve pays it no mind, because he can smell Bucky’s cologne from where he stands. He can see the sweat beading at the base of his neck, and it’s making his heart _do_ things.

“I’m a shit dancer.” Steve blurts out.

Bucky shakes his head. “No you’re not,” Steve quirks an eyebrow, staring at Bucky knowingly, and the brunet laughs. “Okay, alright—you’re not the best dancer, but you’re so damn cute when you’re doin’ it.”

He was sure. He was _so_ sure that Bucky was straight—but straight men, historically, never called Steve _cute_.

Steve struggles to produce words, feeling the heat of a blush along his cheekbones.

“You uh, must be pretty drunk if you’re calling _me_ cute.”

“I mean, I’m drunk but like, that doesn’t change what I think.”

Steve mutters a low ‘ _This cannot be happening’_ as he lowers his gaze, eyes falling away from Bucky’s face. He’s not drunk, but he’s tipsy enough to know that he has to be careful with own his words when he starts to speak.

“Are you messing with me, or something?” Steve asks. He’s nervous and he doesn’t like feeling this way. Bucky _makes_ him nervous. Steve has already established that he has huge a crush on this guy and if Bucky’s just saying all this as a joke, it’s not okay—it’s just plain mean. “Because listen, it’s really not okay to—”

“I’m not messing with you.” Bucky says. He leans in closer and places a heavy hand on Steve’s shoulder before speaking directly into his ear. “I really, _really_ think you’re—” Bucky stops mid-sentence. He pulls away from Steve and takes at least two steps back, body going rigid. He doesn’t make eye contact with Steve; he looks right past him.

“James!”

Steve hears a loud, piercing voice behind him. He moves to the side just in time to watch a tall, dark-skinned man walk right up to Bucky and hug him aggressively. Bucky straightens up and pats the man on the back roughly before pulling away and smiling tightly.

“Gabe—what’s up? Why aren’t you at the party?”

“Why aren’t _you_ at the party?”

Bucky shrugs and coughs into his fist, clearing his throat. “I—uh, well I’m just hanging out with Sam’s roommate. This is Steve.” He quickly motions to Steve, who’s standing behind Gabe.

Gabe turns and looks down at Steve, smiling and nodding toward him. “Nice to meet you. I’m Gabriel—one of James’ brothers.”

“Steve Rogers—nice to meet you.” Steve shakes Gabe’s hand but he’s not looking at Gabe; his eyes are on Bucky, who’s completely red in the face and looking terribly uncomfortable. “Hey, I’m gonna get some water, okay?” Steve tells Bucky.

Bucky nods once; he doesn’t even make eye contact with Steve. “Yeah, I’ll find you.”

Steve hurries off toward the bar area, which has finally been deserted, for the most part. Almost everyone is dancing now. He sits down on one of the empty couches and leans back against the cushions, taking a deep breath.

What the hell just happened?

One minute, Bucky’s smiling, dancing—not to mention saying oddly sweet things? Then the next, he’s colder than ever. Steve had never seen someone flip the switch so quickly. It was weird and Steve is more confused than he was just minutes ago, when Bucky was calling him cute. It’s not the alcohol this time—things are _actually_ not adding up. Steve sits on the couch alone for at least five minutes. Natasha even comes by when she sees him sitting there, but he shakes his head and tells her that he’s just tired and needs to sit. She probably knows he’s lying but she leaves it alone and moves along.

When Bucky finally finds Steve, he still looks relatively unsettled. He sits down on the end of the couch, at least two feet away from Steve. To make things even weirder, Bucky’s still not looking him in the eye.

“So…” Bucky begins, clenching his hands in his laps. “Well…”

“Is it just me or did things just get… _really_ awkward?” Steve spits out. “Like? Did I make that awkward? Are we not supposed to hang out—is it some weird fraternity thing—”

“Listen, I think you’re really cool and everything— _really_ cool. And, you—ah, shit—just? I really…think I like you? Or whatever?”

Steve squints and leans forward, trying to understand Bucky’s drunken, broken speech.

“This is hard. I don’t know, man. I’m not used to this.”

“Used to what, Bucky?”

“ _T_ _his_ ,” Bucky motions toward Steve, waving his hands haphazardly through the air. “People like _you_ . People who are— _you know_?”

“Gay?”

“Out.”

“Oh,” Steve pauses, eyes widening. “ _Oh_.” He cautiously moves closer to Bucky so he can talk in a quieter voice. “So…are you? Gay?”

Bucky almost cringes at the word. He shakes his head first, then just shrugs.

“I don’t know. I—It’s hard to explain. It’s not something I talk about, or whatever. I try not to think about it,” He looks away from Steve and stares down at his sneakers. “I sound like an idiot.”

“No, you don’t,” Steve moves just an inch closer. “You don’t.”

“I don’t tell to people about this, especially not my frat brothers. Only like, two people know—Sam and my roommate. And now you, I guess.”

“I won’t tell anybody—I mean, if that’s something you’re worried about.”

“Thanks,” Bucky sighs, dragging a hand across his face. “God, this was not how this night was supposed to go. I’m not drunk enough for this.”

Steve refrains from saying _‘Me either’_ and keeps talking. “Well, how was it supposed to go?”

“I don’t know, I just…wanted to hang out with you without stressing about this. I like talking to you—I like dancing with you. I like—” Bucky sighs heavily, messing up his hair. “I don’t know.”

“I like you too, Bucky,” Steve admits, finally drawing Bucky’s attention. His eyes are wide and settled solely on Steve. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me since we met and well, you know, that means a lot. So, yeah.” Steve pauses, holding up his hands in front of himself. “But that doesn’t mean this has to be a thing. I’m not like, coming on to you or anything. It’s just that…since you’re being honest, I thought I should too.”

Finally, Bucky cracks a smile. Steve visibly relaxes, letting all the tension and stress drain from his shoulders.

“You are something else.” Bucky brushes off his jeans and quickly gets to his feet. “I’m…gonna have another beer. Can I get you anything?”

“What’s that stupid shot you bought me earlier?”

Bucky covers his smile with his fingers. “It’s a Pixie Stick. It’s like, your signature drink at this point.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Just—get me that.”

Minutes later, Bucky returns with three more shots and a very tall beer for himself. Steve throws the shots back, one after another, because he knows he needs to be significantly intoxicated to get through the rest of this night. Bucky quietly sips his beer beside Steve, staring off at the dance floor. Steve takes his last shot and roughly sets it down on the table before them. He looks over at Bucky.

“We can still go and dance,” He says. “I mean. If that’s not weird? Also if your brother is gone.”

After a short, stiff laugh, Bucky says “You still wanna dance with me, Rogers?”

“I mean, you keep buying me drinks so I have to pay you back somehow.” Steve jokes. Bucky laughs into his beer and Steve can breathe again, because Bucky’s smile finally reaches his eyes, and he’s gorgeous again. “Seriously, I can tell that you like dancing. Even if you don’t want to dance with me—you can go dance with some girls if it’ll make you feel more comfortable.”

“Steve, I don’t wanna dance with girls,” Bucky takes a long drink from his beer, finishing it off. “Hey, listen—can we get out of here?”

Steve nods, relieved. “Yeah. Let me just text Nat.”

Not-so-surprisingly, Natasha has no qualms about Steve leaving. He and Bucky head out of the bar and into the streets. It’s nearing 1am and the streets are full of drunken college students—singing, shouting, laughing, and running through the streets like madmen. It’s beautifully chaotic and Steve is thoroughly amused. Bucky seems to have lost his air of tension and anxiousness and for that, Steve is thankful.

“The air is nice,” Bucky emphasizes his statement by throwing his arms in the air and taking in a deep, long breath. Steve watches his muscles stretch underneath his tight black shirt and he nods, swallowing hard.

“Yeah. It is.” He says. “Did you want to head back to campus?”

“Not really.” Bucky replies. “Can we just—I don’t know, walk around for a little while?”

Steve nods, smiling then. “Sure, yeah.”

They travel through the streets of downtown, avoiding stumbling sorority girls, whooping frat boys, and the rest of the intoxicated student population. They don’t talk about what happened in the bar and Steve doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not, but he doesn’t push it because Bucky appears to be comfortable and in a far better mood.

Instead, Bucky asks Steve questions—things like _‘tell me about where you’re from’_ and _‘what was it like for you back home_ ’ and he listens attentively while Steve rambles on and on about his mother, about being president of his school’s Art Club, and stories about Brooklyn. Steve finds out that Bucky was born in Brooklyn too, but moved away when he was very young. Steve, without even thinking, tells Bucky that he should come back with him sometime just to visit. Bucky doesn’t answer and he gets very quiet after Steve says this, but he still smiles.

Steve, in turn, asks Bucky about his life. He doesn’t get much out of him on the topic of home, but Bucky talks a great deal about his fraternity brothers. Bucky tells him that he joined Sigma Delta during his freshman year of college, and he thinks of it as one of the best decisions he’s ever made. He talks about his brothers, about the shenanigans they’d gotten themselves into over the years, and about how he took on a pretty heavy leadership position this year, even though he’s swamped with work and classes. Steve admires him for his dedication—he adds this to the list of reasons why he likes Bucky Barnes.

They walk until the streets are empty, until everyone has gone home and the bars have closed down. Bucky keeps his promise—he walks Steve all the way home.

At the door, Steve stops. He looks up at Bucky and, with courage and purpose, speaks up.

“I had fun tonight,” He says. “Thanks for inviting me out.”

“Yeah, no problem, man. And—you know—sorry about before.”

Shaking his head, Steve tells Bucky “No, you don’t need to apologize at all. You’re fine,” He stands there, facing Bucky, pulling at the fold of his t-shirt. “Tonight was really great, no matter what. I like talking to you.”

“I like talking to you, too.”

Steve doesn’t know what to do. Is he supposed to hug him? Shake his hand, or something? Because his heart is telling him to kiss Bucky but he _knows_ that’s a decidedly shit idea and he’s definitely not going for it. Before Steve can hypothesize any more about ways to not create awkward contact between Bucky and himself, Bucky reaches out and gently places his hand against Steve’s forearm.

“Thank you.” Bucky grins. “You’re a great guy, Rogers.” He gives Steve’s forearm a soft squeeze before shoving both his hands into his jean pockets. “See you around?”

“Yeah,” Steve replies. “Text me?”

Bucky’s walking backward, away from Steve, but his eyes are still on him. Steve, too, doesn’t look away.

“Count on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the three ds: denial, determination, and drinking


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally made a playlist for this fic and it is equal parts fratty and heartbreaking. I specialize in being queer trash, tbh.

Wanda bites into a pretzel stick covered in Nutella. She chews and waves the half-eaten stick in Steve’s direction. “ _No hablan Inglés, Steve. Necesitas practica_.”

Steve pages through his Spanish I textbook, shaking his head. “Something about English being practical?”

“Steve…did you not tell me that you took Spanish in high school? _And_ at your community college in Brooklyn?”

“I _struggled_ through Spanish in high school.” Steve groans. “If it wasn’t for my friends Peggy and Natasha, I probably wouldn’t have passed.”

Wanda shakes her head. “You are very smart. You’ll be fine, you just need some better study skills, I think.”

“I’m hi-lighting all the important things?”

“Steve, that’s not studying.” Wanda chuckles lightly. “A hi-lighter is not like a—what’s that thing—a scanner, for your brain. You need to actually use the words. Try them out on your tongue. Language is orally ingested.”

“Huh?”

Wanda laughs again. “Say the words, dummy.”  She passes Steve the bag of pretzel sticks and the jar of Nutella. “Here—food for your brain.”

“Thanks.” Steve smiles, graciously accepting the snack. He dips a pretzel stick into the spread and then munches on it. He closes his Spanish I textbook and lies down on the floor. Staring up, he notices the glow-in-the-dark stars on Wanda’s ceiling and he smiles. He used to have a set when he was a kid—his father had even constructed a version the Little Dipper for him, back then. Steve loved the stars because, as much as he denied it, he had always been afraid of the dark.

“It’s Andromeda,” Wanda tells him. “The constellation, I mean. It’s my favorite. My brother did this for me when I moved in.”

“Does he live in this dorm?”

Wanda shakes her head. “North side of campus. Florence Hall, I think.”

“Do you get to see him a lot?”

Again, Wanda shakes her head. “Not really. He’s very busy. And he’s found a lot of new friends, joined the Track team, and I think he might be doing a very strange fraternity thing?” She shrugs. “He’s all over the place. Never sits still.”

“You must miss him.” Steve speaks, still staring up at the ceiling.

Wanda looks over at him and sighs. She puts her notebook down and lies beside him, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark constellation.

“Sometimes,” she says. “We used to be inseparable and now…I don’t know.  I just feel like sometimes, maybe I don’t fit in here, the way that he does? It feels strange to be so far from home.” She laces her fingers on top of her stomach and sighs. “Then again, it’s only been about a month?” 

“It makes sense to feel homesick,” Steve tells her. “And to miss your brother. When all of my friends left for college, it was awful. I felt…I don’t know, like a part of me was missing. I haven’t seen this much of them for the last two years.”

“Why did you stay behind?” Wanda asks.

Steve shrugs. “I was really sick.”

“Sick?” she questions.

He pauses, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. “I’m gonna tell you this, but you can’t freak out, alright?” he prefaces. Wanda glances over at him and nods. Steve doesn’t look at her. She’s silent beside him; Steve takes at least three seconds to breathe before he speaks.

“Alright, so—all my life, I had a pretty bad heart. It wasn’t anything I did, I was just born with it—bad genetics, I guess. Couldn’t play sports, always tired—the works.” Steve sighs, shutting his eyes for a moment. “So, toward the end of my senior year, everything just went really to shit. My heart finally went bad. My mom, bless her heart, fought like hell until I got put on a donor list. I spent a lot of time in hospitals...just waiting, you know? For a donor. And well, to make a long story short, last December it finally happened. Now I’m good as new.”

Wanda nods again, absorbing everything Steve confessed. “I didn’t freak out.” she notes.

Steve smiles a little. “You didn’t,” he agrees. “Most people do. Or they start pitying me, telling me _‘oh I’m so sorry, you poor thing’_ , and like—I don’t need that, you know? I don’t need pity. I’m fine.”

“I can understand that.” Wanda says. “Thanks for telling me. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.” Steve says. He glances over at Wanda, who’s already looking at him. “You know, if you ever get lonely, you can always just text me. We can hang out. You can even meet my friends—I know they’d really like you.”

The girl smiles then, a wide, genuine smile. “I would like that a lot, actually.” She exhales deeply and reaches over to grab Steve’s Spanish I textbook. He groans sadly as she sets it on top of his chest. Wanda grins. _“No té preocupes—tu puedes hacerlo_! _”_

Steve has no idea what she said but he sits up and opens the book anyway.

After they finish studying—or rather, after Wanda gets tired of speaking Spanish to non-fluent ears—they decide to head to the Student Union for lunch. Steve is glad to have a reprieve from the books; there’s only so much he can handle when it comes to languages. In high school, he was decidedly terrible at both English and Spanish. He tried taking French at the community college back in Brooklyn and ended up dropping it after three weeks. Languages just aren’t his forte.

When they reach the Union, they get food and Steve suggests that they grab an empty table on the outside. The inside is overcrowded and it’s a beautiful day outside, so Steve figures they might as well enjoy it. Wanda agrees and, as they sit under the sunshine, she turns her face toward its rays, smiling.

“This is so nice,” She tells Steve. “It’s so dreary back home. I might even get a tan here.”

Steve bites into his turkey sandwich and nods as he chews. His eyes scan the expanse of the Union circle—it’s pretty empty, aside from the students scattered in the grassy areas, some reading and some just basking in the sunlight. However, just as Steve is getting used to the quiet, he hears a roar of loud laughter from around the corner of the Union. Suddenly, a sea of guys dressed in maroon and white come marching out to the front of the Union. They’re all wearing shirts that say _RUSH SIG DELT 2016,_ and Steve can already feel his hands start to sweat.

“Pietro?” Wanda pipes up. Steve’s eyes widen.

“Your brother?”

“Oh, what is he wearing…”

They’re all annoyingly identical. All dressed in white shorts and tan boat-shoes. However, even though they all look like clones, Steve spots Bucky instantaneously.

At least he’s not wearing a dumb snapback this time.

Pietro spots Wanda first; he breaks from the mass of frat boys and hurries over to his sister, ruffling her hair when he reaches her.

Wanda frowns. “What have they done to you?” Her brother is dressed just like the others, except he’s wearing white Ray Bans with “RUSH 2016” on them, and his hair has been dyed white. Steve is sure that it probably wasn’t like that before.

“Already with the attitude.” Pietro grins. Wanda starts laying into him in a language that Steve can neither understand nor recognize.

As the group gets closer to their table, Bucky finally spots Steve.

At first, Bucky smiles. However, when one of his brothers swings an arm around his neck, Bucky's smile disappears and is replaced with a look that Steve can only describe as uneasiness. Steve waves at him anyway and, surprisingly, he comes over. But, not without two of his brothers flanking his sides.

“Hey,” Bucky manages, with his arms folded across his chest.

“Long time no see.” Steve replies. He motions to the large group of new recruits with his free hand. “You’ve been busy, huh?”

Bucky bashfully rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah—it’s Bid Day.”

“I don’t speak frat—what does that even mean?” Steve jokes, laughing softly.

Bucky pats Pietro on the back roughly, saving him from further berating from his sister.

“Here, newbie—tell Steve what Bid Day is all about.”

Pietro starts talking excitedly and, as much as Steve wanted to listen to him, he can’t help but notice the way that Bucky is trying his _best_ not to make eye contact. And as more of his brothers start to gather around them, Bucky’s shoulders get stiffer and his expression tenser. He still smiles at their jokes and laughs, but Steve can tell that he is the farthest from relaxed.

Eventually, they all leave and Bucky doesn’t even say goodbye. Steve won’t lie and say that he isn’t a little miffed by that, but he understands Bucky’s position, and so he just lets it go.

“I don’t think I like this,” Wanda begins. “This whole fraternity thing. My brother has been eaten alive. And that guy you were talking to—he was the frattiest of them all.” Wanda rolls her eyes and Steve chokes on the water he’s drinking.

“Bucky?” He chuckles, wiping his mouth. “Yeah, he’s pretty into the whole thing. He’s the guy who recruits all the new people, so I guess he has to be.”

“So I should be blaming him for this? Good to know.”

“He’s okay, Wanda. I swear.”

“Debatable.”

Steve laughs again and keeps trying to vouch for Bucky but there’s really no changing Wanda’s mind. When she shows Steve old pictures of the two of them back in Sokovia, and he sees what Pietro _used_ to look like, he almost _has_ to side with Wanda on this one.

Once Steve and Wanda finish their lunch, Steve offers to walk Wanda back to her dormitory. The whole way back, she’s ranting about brainwashing, cursing in her mother tongue, and Steve won’t deny that he’s thoroughly amused.

When he gets back to his own dorm, Sam’s there, but he’s not alone. He’s sitting on the futon with a handsome, black man, who’s dressed in all black and staring at Sam like he’s the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen.

“…and I just think that Americans, as a whole, should learn more about the politics of International Adoption, and stop thinking they’re doing these kids a _favor_ by—oh, hey Steve.” Sam turns around mid-sentence to greet him.

“Hey,” Steve drops his backpack on his desk. “Pretty heated discussion there.”

Sam shrugs, running his hands over his head. “A discussion that carried over from my last class. People are the worst, you know? The amount of entitlement in one classroom is like, overwhelming sometimes.” He shakes his head. “Sorry—this is T’Challa. T’Challa, this is my roommate, Steve.”

“A pleasure.” Steve is taken aback by T’Challa’s thick accent—it just makes him more handsome than Steve initially thought.

“Happy to meet you.”

Sam apologizes to T’Challa for venting for so long but, by the look on the other man’s face, he couldn’t have cared less.  He keeps smiling as Sam apologizes and gives him a gentle pat on the back when he leaves. When T’Challa is finally gone, Steve turns to Sam immediately.

“He’s…very attractive.”

“And way out of my league.” Sam adds. Steve frowns. “International student. Super smart, super rich, and heading back to his country in the Spring. It’s tragic.”

Steve shrugs. “I think you should go for it. No time like the present.”

Sam lies down on the futon. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe he’ll whisk me away to Wakanda and I can be his prince or something.”

Steve throws his head back and laughs. “Prince Samuel Wilson—that’s definitely got a ring to it.”

Suddenly, Steve’s phone begins vibrating in his pocket. He pulls it out and sees four texts, all from the same person.

_Bucky Barnes_

_(2:45) srry i was being so weird_  
_(2:45) i’m such an idiot. don’t hate me._  
_(2:45) do u wanna hang out later? study mayb?_  
_(2:45) u can say no_

Steve rolls his eyes and laughs quietly to himself.

_(2:46) you’re fine, I get it. sure, I definitely need to get some studying done. where do you wanna meet?_

Bucky responds almost immediately.

_(2:46) my dorm? i live in howard hall—i’ll order pizza. whats ur favorite??_

Steve smiles and texts back.

_(2:47) sausage, bacon, and mushroom_

And to that, Bucky says:

_(2:48) weird._

“Pretty popular over there.” Sam pipes up, peeking over the futon to see Steve.

Steve shakes his head immediately. “No, it’s just Bucky.”

“You guys are totally becoming best friends behind my back. I can already tell,” Sam jokes.

Smiling, Steve asks, “How long have you guys actually known each other, anyway?”

Sam shrugs. “Since we were about thirteen.”

“You two from the same town?”

“Something like that.” He doesn’t say any more than that and Steve doesn’t press on. Instead, he opts to get some drawing done for his Drawing I class. Another Still Life exercise, this time focusing on shadowing. These are things that Steve could do perfectly in his sleep—he’s feeling extremely unchallenged. However, he knows that he has to take this class in order to progress to the other Art courses, so he just bites the bullet and keeps drawing.

When he reaches a good stopping point, at least two hours have passed and Sam is snoozing, snoring away on the futon. Steve does his best not to wake him as he puts away all of his art supplies and cleans off his desk. He packs up the articles from his Women’s Studies course that need read and decides to leave his Spanish notes on his desk, underneath the textbook, underneath a bunch of other stuff because he just doesn’t want to look at it.

Steve sends Bucky a quick text to ask what time he wants him to come over and Bucky just says “whenever you want.” So, Steve leaves as soon as he’s gotten all of his things together. Though, before he leaves, he gives Sam a blanket and a pillow because the futon is pretty uncomfortable.

As he opens the door to leave, Steve is abruptly met by his RA, Darcy, who’s already shoving a green sheet of paper into his hands.

“…what is this?”

“Floor meeting. Two minutes.” Darcy informs, voice muffled by the pen in her mouth. She’s carrying a whole stack of papers, her clipboard, tape, a very large and mysterious trash bag, and a can of Red bull. “Just—go to the community room, please!”

The community room, located at the end of the hallway, near the almost-always-broken elevator, is packed with people. Some are sitting in chairs, some on tables, some on the floor, and everyone looks distinctly annoyed. There’s a whiteboard at the front of the room and, drawn in enormous, neon green bubble letters are the words “Safe Sex is Great Sex”.

Immediately, Steve turns to leave the room.

Unfortunately, Darcy is there. She grabs him by the shoulders and leads him back inside.

“Five minutes!” She tells him, and then shouts it to everyone else. “Five minutes of your life! That’s all!”

Steve hears someone else groan and say _‘I’ll never get those five minutes back’_ and he tries not to laugh.

After watching Darcy stumble her way to the front of the room, Steve leans against the wall and prepares for the most embarrassing PSA of his life.

“Okay! Listen up!” Darcy shouts, setting down all the stuff in her arms. She smooths down her WWU t-shirt and claps her hands. “You guys are like, grown-ups now! So I’m not gonna give you the whole talk about the birds and the bees or whatever, but I am gonna give you some resources!”

She gathers up the papers again and hands them to the first person to her right. “Take one and pass it down—these are all the services that the clinic offers. They do lots of stuff and it’s all great. But most importantly! STI screening—oh don’t _groan._ It’s a free service and there’s no shame in getting checked out! We’ve all had some wild nights—I won’t deny it!”

Steve shakes his head and buries his face in his hands.

“Also!” Darcy turns around and pulls her mysteriously large white trash bag out from under the table. When she opens it, there are at least twenty-five brown paper bags inside. She starts handing them out to the residents and as soon as they start opening them, a collective gasp echoes throughout the room. Steve gets his bag and Darcy rolls her eyes at the others. “Oh don’t act like you’ve never seen ‘em before!”

The bags are filled with a colorful array of condoms with a colorful array of styles. Steve clutches the bag until it’s shut tight and fights the overpowering urge to run out of this room.

“Free condoms for everybody because safe sex is important. Every RA is doing this so _no_ I’m not being weird, I’m just making sure there are no unfortunate STI’s or surprise babies on our floor this year, alright? Stay safe!” She keeps passing out bags to reluctant residents. “There’s mouth guards in there too—here.”

When she’s done, everyone leaves quickly. However, before Steve can leave, Darcy stops him to strike up a conversation.

“Hey, how’s everything going?” She asks.

Steve shrugs, still gripping the bag full of condoms and mouth guards. “Good, I guess?”

“That’s good! Have you met any new people? Joined any clubs?”

Awkwardly, Steve nods. “Yeah, actually. I’ve met a few people through my roommate. And I joined the campus Art club, which seems pretty cool. They meet on Fridays.”

“So you’re an _artist_? That’s really cool!” Abruptly, Darcy takes out a small notepad from her pocket and starts scribbling. Steve raises a curious eyebrow. “Oh no, don’t worry! I have to like…write this down—document this conversation.”

“That’s…really weird?”

“I mean arguably my job is really weird. I’m like, a pseudo-mom or whatever. Glorified babysitter. Gotta keep tabs on you guys to make sure you don’t like, die—anyway tell me about your art!”

Steve spends a very uncomfortable five minutes dishing out information about his art, about Sam, Bucky, and the rest of his friends. Once he’s done, he goes back to his room and hides the bag of condoms in his closet because he doesn’t want to look at it, and he doesn’t want to explain Darcy’s weird meeting to Sam, who should be glad he missed it.

On his way downstairs, Steve’s phone starts to ring. He looks at the caller ID and smiles.

“Hey, Peggy,” he quickly answers.

“What are you doing? Do you want to see a movie with Natasha and I?”

“Just finished a floor meeting and had a very uncomfortable conversation with my RA,” Steve begins. “But I’m actually, I’m heading over to meet with Bucky to study.”

 _“Ooh,”_ Peggy says; Steve can almost hear her smiling through the phone. “Is this the boy you told me about before? The one with the hair and the horrible fashion taste?”

Steve laughs, climbing onto the elevator. “Yeah. That’s the one.”

“I never thought frat boys would be your type, Steven. I’m impressed.”

He rolls his eyes. “Let’s not do this.” He can hear Natasha in the background yelling _‘called it!’_ but he elects to ignore it. “We’re just friends.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” Peggy tells him. “I imagine it’ll be a cold day in hell when the two of us are back on the dating scene, then.”

Steve snorts out a laugh. “Probably.”

The walk to Bucky’s dorm takes about ten solid minutes. Now that the sun is beginning to set, it’s much cooler outside, so Steve takes his time walking, and takes this time to compose himself before he throws himself into a tiny room with James Barnes and is expected to one-hundred-percent, totally not be attracted to him. The last time they’d even seen one another had been the night at the bar—and _that_ had been at least two weeks ago. They hadn’t even talked—Steve had been too nervous to text Bucky, and he assumed that Bucky was too busy to text him. To Steve, seeing Bucky today was both a blessing and a curse; he was excited to spend time with him, but now he would be plagued with _feelings_ all over again.

When Steve reaches Bucky’s dorm, he takes into account just how much _nicer_ it is than his own. The architecture of the building is much newer, and everything on the inside is bright and shiny. It’s nothing like Moore Hall, which sort of looks exactly how it looked in the nineties.

Steve finds Bucky hanging across the front desk, chatting with the front desk clerk. She might as well have hearts in her eyes, what with the way she’s staring at Bucky. Steve can sympathize.

Bucky spots him when he comes through the glass doors. He smiles immediately, then says goodbye to the girl at the desk before walking to meet Steve.

“Hey, man,” Bucky says. “Pizza should be here in a minute. I’m seriously questioning your tastes, by the way.”

“There is nothing wrong with it.”

“Are you _really_ from Brooklyn, Steve?”

“Oh my god, stop.” Steve laughs. “It’s my mom’s favorite, alright. It was all I used to eat as a kid.”

“So you’re a mama’s boy?” Bucky jokes. Steve frowns. “Don’t be mad. It’s cool, it’s cute.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Whatever. You’ll see—it’s delicious.”

“We’ll see.” Bucky grins.

Moments later, the pizza delivery guy shows up with a large pizza and a 2 liter of coke. Bucky pays for everything, tips the delivery boy, and then they head to Bucky’s room. Bucky lives on the second floor so they take the stairs up. When they get to Bucky’s room, Steve is amazed. It’s at least twice the size of Steve and Sam’s room, it’s air conditioned, and there’s a bathroom attached to it as well. Steve is immediately overcome with envy.

“How did you even get this room?”

“Seniority.” Bucky shrugs. “First years always get the short end of the stick.”

“That’s not right at all,” Steve huffs. “My room is like…prison, compared to this. And it’s _hot_ in there. It messes with my asthma.”

Bucky laughs. “You can come hang out in my air-conditioned room anytime you want, pal.”

Bucky sets the pizza and the 2-liter down on his desk. “Sorry about the mess. Haven’t had much time to clean.”

Steve gets a good look at the place. Bucky’s roommate's desk is clean, his bed is made, and not a single one of his things is out of place. However, Bucky’s side of the room is…chaotic. His walls are covered in posters, and sports team’s banners, and there are about five different Sigma Delta plaques hanging up too. His desk is a mess, there’s papers everywhere, pens scattered, stupid snapbacks piled high, and books haphazardly strewn all over. His laundry basket is filled to the brim and when Bucky catches Steve eyeing it, he unceremoniously shoves it into his closet.

“I’m not usually this messy, I swear,” Bucky says. “I’ve just been so busy with Rush, and work, and class—I’m barely here anymore.”

“You don’t have to explain anything,” Steve assures him. “I’m not judging.”

Bucky motions to the two beanbag chairs in the center of their room. “You can sit there. Or on my bed. I’d offer up my desk but, well,” He shrugs.

Steve sits down on one of the beanbags and drops his backpack. He pulls out the articles for his Women’s Studies classes and watches as Bucky pours coke into two coffee mugs and brings them over, along with the box of pizza. He sets one cup beside Steve and sets the pizza between them.

“I’m trusting you, Rogers.” Bucky picks up a slice of pizza and Steve watches him take the most painstakingly slow bite. He chews cautiously, staring down at the pizza in hand, and then he closes his eyes and sighs dramatically.

“…I’ll never doubt you again,” Bucky groans. “It’s so disgustingly delicious.”

Steve picks up a piece of pizza and grins. He doesn’t even need to boast.

Together, the two of them finish the entire large pizza. Steve ends up getting grease marks all over his articles for class and Bucky’s hi-lighters end up slick with grease too. Both of them are too lazy to find paper towels or wash their hands so they just wipe away the grease on their jeans.

As Steve’s taking notes in the margins of his articles, his eyes slowly wander over to Bucky’s notes. He can’t read a word of it though—Bucky’s handwriting is a weird mix of print and cursive, and in-between blocks of text he’s drawn weird pictures—or diagrams, Steve isn’t sure. There are arrows all over, some pointing to the drawings, some pointing to sentences above and below. He can’t believe that Bucky can even make sense of all that.

Steve continues to observe; after Bucky reads a paragraph, he starts writing in his notebook again. He has three pens—green, blue, and red—and he uses each pen to write down different things. Steve wonders why he does that, but then figures it’s probably some weird studying technique. Whatever the case, it’s entertaining to watch him, with one pen behind his ear, one in his mouth, and one in his hand.

After about a minute, Steve realizes that he’s getting almost nothing done. Every time he tries to focus, he ends up watching Bucky again. It’s impossible to concentrate.

“What are you studyin’?” Bucky asks, taking his eyes off his textbook to glance over at Steve.

“Women’s Studies,” Steve answers. “Taking it for a Perspectives requirement.”

“Oh, I took that class my first year. Yeah, with Tasha and everything. Who’s your instructor?”

“Dr. Munroe,” Steve answers.

Immediately, Bucky’s face lights up. “Oh, dude, she is so awesome. She’s like, one of the best professors I’ve ever had. If she taught classes for my major, I’d be all over it. She’s like, intimidatingly smart.” He nods to himself. “Freshman year, she was my advisor. She helped me through a lot.”

“I really like her,” Steve replies. “She’s not afraid to push, you know? Her class makes me realize that there’s so much I don’t know. I’m enjoying it.”

“If you can take another class with her, do it. It’ll make you smarter.”

Steve smiles and nods. “Will do.” He gestures toward Bucky’s textbook. “What are you studying?”

“Organic Chemistry.” Bucky groans, shaking his head. “I’m retakin’ the class because I flunked out last spring. It’s a pain in the ass,” He tucks one of his pens behind his left ear. “But I can’t do anything until I pass it, so.”

“Do you always study alone?” Steve questions. “I’m only asking because it might help to study with someone who’s taking the same class? I study Spanish with a friend of mine named Wanda, and even though I’m still pretty terrible at it, I think I’ve gotten better?”

“Pietro’s sister?” Bucky asks. Steve nods. “She’s somethin’.”

Steve cracks a smile. “Yeah, I don’t think she likes you very much.”

Bucky gasps dramatically. “What? Why not?”

“Thinks you brainwashed her brother.”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky sighs. “Ugh, she’s probably just as bad as Sam.” He looks at Steve, who has an almost apprehensive expression on his face. His eyes widen. “Oh come on, don’t tell me you agree with her!”

“I’ve seen pictures of him before he joined your fraternity and, I gotta say—totally different guy.”

“Listen, he dyed his hair white as a joke. I had no part in that.”

“I want to believe you.”

“What? Steve, listen—” Bucky raises both his hands in a gesture resembling surrender. “I’m not saying that all the bad stuff people say about frats isn’t true. There’s definitely some bad stuff. But like, there’s also a lot of good? Like, I’m not gonna say it doesn’t _change_ people, but there’s no coercion, alright? We don’t haze, not like a lot of the other frats. We do our best to support our new guys through the process, and yeah we might do stupid shit like dye our hair or shave our heads or whatever, but it’s all in good fun, I swear.” Bucky lowers his hands. “There’s a lot more good than bad.”

“I believe you,” Steve tells him. “You’re a really good person, so I couldn’t see you surrounding yourself with bad people.”

“Aw, you see the light in me and shit.” Bucky grins. “Wow, I think we just became level-three friends.”

“You ruined the moment, Bucky.”

“Can’t take myself too seriously.”

“Incredible. Wow.”

“I’m shit at taking compliments, fight me.”

Steve chokes out a laugh. “You’re so ridiculous.”

“But you think I’m funny, so it’s worth it.”  Bucky smiles, waving his green pen in Steve’s direction. “Now stop distracting me, I need to study.”

“You _started_ this conversation!”

Bucky shrugs. “Incidentals.” Steve throws the cap of his hi-lighter at him. Bucky gasps, laughs, and then tosses one of his pens at Steve. Steve ducks out of the way and then Bucky tries again, this time with the cap of his red pen, and it catches Steve’s ear.

“Someone’s gonna lose an eye!”

“Sure as hell ain’t gonna be me!”

In the middle of their pen fight, the door to Bucky’s door eases open. Standing in the doorway is Bruce, with a basket full of laundry.

“This is arguably dangerous,” Bruce notes.

“Steve started it.” Bucky gestures toward him. “Bruce—Steve. Steve—my roommate, Bruce.”

Bruce comes inside and drops his laundry basket on his side of the room. He wipes his hands on his sweatpants before reaching out to shake Steve’s.

“Nice to meet you—I’ve heard a lot about you.” Bruce admits.

Steve turns to Bucky, trying and failing at fighting a smile. “You told your roommate about me? Wow, I can’t imagine the slander,” he jokes.

Bucky’s ears begin to turn a little red and he shoots an accusing glare in Bruce’s direction before saying, “Oh yeah, I talk so much shit about you, Rogers.”

Laughing aloud, Steve releases Bruce’s hand. “How do you _live_ with this guy?”

“We’ve lived together for three years. I’m sort of used to his antics, at this point,” Bruce says, grinning at Bucky.

“I’m the best roommate you’ve ever had.”

“You’re the _only_ roommate I’ve ever had.”

Smiling to himself, Bruce begins to put away all of his previously folded laundry.

“Are you sticking around?” Bucky asks.

Bruce shakes his head. “No, I’m heading over to Tony’s. Group project.” He shrugs. “I should be back in a couple of hours—three, tops.”

“Good luck with that.”

Shrugging, Bruce closes the dresser drawers and then throws his laundry basket into his closet. He then picks up his backpack and slings it across his shoulders.

“Staying in tonight?”

Bucky quickly glances at Steve and then smiles before nodding. “Yeah,” he says “Steve’s my study buddy, I can’t just ditch him.” Steve rolls his eyes dramatically and both Bucky and Bruce laugh.

“Good to know you’ve got some good influences.” Bruce smiles at Steve and nods in his direction. “It was good meeting you. Hope to see you around again.” Bruce eyes Bucky knowingly, with an expression on his face that Steve can’t seem to decipher.

After Bruce is gone, they get back to the books. Bucky ends up sprawled across the floor with books, notebooks, sticky notes, hi-lighters, and pens all around him, while Steve lets himself be sucked in by the beanbag as he struggles to read yet another journal article. The silence is comfortable and easy. Bucky is quiet and Steve doesn’t feel obligated to make conversation, which is a relief.

They stay this way for a solid hour before Bucky gives up and plants his face right in the middle of his textbook.

“My brain hurts,” he groans. “I’m done—I can’t cram any more of this crap into my head.” He rolls over onto his side and glances at Steve, who’s already tossing his article to the side.

“Not arguing with that,” Steve replies, rubbing his temples gently. “What time is it?”

Bucky reaches into his jeans’ pocket and pulls out his cell phone. “’Round seven,” he says, closing his textbook. His eyes are still on Steve. “I’m probably just gonna like, watch a movie or something. You’re welcome to stay, if you want.”

“Oh…I mean, I don’t want to bother you or invade your space if you’re trying to wind down.”

Bucky smiles, scratching his head and mussing  his already messy bun. “You uh…you should stay.”

Trying his best not to be awkward and embarrassed, Steve stares down at his hands and nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure—what do you want to watch?”

This becomes the question of the evening, as the two indecisive boys spend just about forty-five minutes browsing through Netflix, trying to find a movie that they can agree on. Steve is all about B-movies, cult-classics, and artsy Indie films. Bucky’s tastes are vastly different—he suggests at least three different romantic comedies and at least two action films, which he defends vehemently when Steve tries to rag on the quality of the plots.

“It’s supposed to be _fun_ Steve—”

“The writers didn’t even try.”

“Not everythin’ can be _Requiem for a Dream_ , dude.”

“That was a _great_ movie—don’t even start!”

Finally, they decide to watch a horror film. Steve has never been a fan of scary movies, but he and Bucky don’t seem to be able to reach a solid agreement. Steve is already under-impressed by the summary, but he tries to keep all his movie-buff comments to himself. His mother always told him _‘not everyone cares about movies as much as you do, kid’_ and he tries to remember that as the movie starts to play.

Bucky rearranges the pillows on his bed so that they’re up against the wall, and then he and Steve use his bed like a futon in order to watch the movie.

Everything is fine, going great, and Steve feels alright—right up until Bucky decides it’s a good idea to turn off the lights. The room goes dark, Bucky comes back to sit down beside him, and suddenly Steve is hyperaware of everything. He hears people chatting outside in the hallway, hears the whirring of Bucky’s laptop on the other side of the room, and the steadiness of Bucky’s breathing as he concentrates on watching the movie. Steve can’t manage that—he’s so close to Bucky now that he can smell his cologne.   The scent is warm and woodsy, like the scent of the earth just after it rains. Steve closes his eyes and inhales slowly, taking it in. He tries to pretend like he’s not having one of the hardest times of his life. Still, he hears Bucky breathing beside him, slow intake of breath, steady exhales. Still, his scent is all around Steve, impossible to ignore.

Bucky folds his arms over his chest and his knuckles accidentally brush against the skin of Steve’s arm. An involuntary shiver scales Steve’s spine and he bites the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to focus on the movie that he hasn’t been paying attention to since the opening credits. He watches the screen, giving the film his full attention. A woman tiptoes down a corridor with a flashlight; everything on screen is dead silent, aside from the sound of the woman’s breathing. The corridor is pitch black and the light from her flashlight starts to flicker. Steve leans forward, watching the screen closely. Suddenly, a pair of bloody hands reach out, grab her, and pull her into darkness as she screams out.

_“Jesus!”_

Steve clutches Bucky’s arm and buries his face in his shoulder. Bucky’s hand is over Steve’s in an instant. Bucky is grinning down at Steve now, trying not to laugh. 

“I’m gonna have a heart attack.”

“Oh my god, Steve do you even watch scary movies?”

“…at home with my mother, yeah.”

“That’s precious.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“I’ll protect you from the flesh eatin’ demon, don’t worry.”

Steve considers letting go of Bucky’s arm, but Bucky’s hand is still on top of his and well…he just doesn’t let go.

“I’m not afraid of this stupid movie.”

“Uh huh, whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Bucky doesn’t take another jab at Steve, but he does keep his hand on Steve’s, and occasionally uses his thumb to rub Steve’s fingers whenever things get tense.  Steve is so thankful that the lights are down—there is no way in hell he’d want Bucky to see him right now; he’s blushing so much, and he’s sure that his entire face, neck, and probably even his arms are red. His chest is tight, it feels like there’s a weight in his stomach, and his hands are—embarrassingly enough—starting to sweat.

Steve clears his throat. “My hands are…I’m gonna let go of you, now.”

“It’s alright,” Bucky softly tells him. “I don’t mind.”

“Oh,” Steve exhales slowly. He doesn’t look Bucky in the eye—instead, he turns his attention back to the godforsaken movie that will probably give him nightmares.

Abruptly, Steve feels his phone vibrating in his pocket. He pulls it out—dims the screen—and checks his text messages. He’s got one from Natasha and as soon as he answers her text, she’s quick to respond:

 _(7:47) Are you still “studying”?_  
(7:47) we’re watching a movie.  
(7:48) Netflix  & Chill™  
_(7:48) no, Nat. i know what that is and we are not doing that. we are FRIENDS._  
_(7:48) lol that sounds fake but ok. Anyway we are all getting ice cream later so if you can manage to tear yourself away from Barnes for like, two secs, you should come. He can come too. Whatever I don’t care I just want a root beer float._  
_(7:49) you’re terrible. i’ll ask him._  
_(7:50) xoxo_

Steve locks his screen and looks up at Bucky. “Do you wanna get ice cream after this?” he blurts out, before losing all of his courage.  “Nat and the others…they’re going so, you know…you should come,” He pauses. “You paid for the pizza. I’ll buy your ice cream.”

“We’re buying each other food now? I think we’ve skyrocketed to level five on the friendship meter.”

“Oh my god.”

“Unless it’s a date, then that would push us all the way to like, level eleven. Flying past the tragic backstory.”

“You can buy your own stupid ice cream.”

“Hey, no take backs.”

They spend more time going back and forth than they do watching the movie. By the time they’re both quiet again, they’ve missed so much that they decide to just shut the movie off and head out. Bucky actually knows where the ice cream shop is, so he leads the way. He goes on and on about how this place has the best birthday cake flavored ice cream that he’s ever tasted, and about how, during his freshman year, he gained ten pounds in three weeks because he went there every single day.

The ice cream shop is modest, and looks like it was built sometime around the 50’s, but it has some charm to it. They walk inside and find Peggy with Natasha, sharing an extremely large root beer float. Peggy’s eyes widen when she sees Bucky and Steve gives her a warning look, silently telling her to cut it out. Natasha unceremoniously pops her lips when she sees them coming.

“Would you look at this,” she smirks, eyeing the two of them.

“Hey, Tasha,” Bucky says.

“Hey, Barnes—cut the shit, stop trying to steal my best friend, alright?" Natasha teases. "He’s small and there is not enough of him to go around.” 

“Natasha, play nice,” Peggy chimes in. She looks up at Bucky and grins. “Peggy Carter—nice to finally meet you.”

When Natasha tells Bucky that Peggy is Steve’s “evil ex-girlfriend,” Steve immediately pulls Bucky away and toward the counter. Bucky’s mouth is hanging open and Steve doesn’t even want to hear what comes out of it next.

“You _dated_ her?”

Steve sighs heavily. “In high school, yeah,” He touches the glass case, trying to decide on an ice-cream flavor. “She was always way out of my league, I know.”

“No, I mean—you date girls?”

Steve turns, palm still against the chilled glass. “Yeah? I’m bi,” he answers. “I mean, I’ve never dated a guy, but I’ve like—you know—so, yeah.”

Bucky’s raises a curious eyebrow. “No, I don’t know.”

Clearing his throat loudly, Steve hurriedly turns back to the glass case filled with ice cream. “As I recall, we’re only at level five, so no, you don’t get my weird history.”

Bucky laughs, clutching his sides. “You win this time. The truth will come out someday.”

“Unlikely—come pick your ice cream.”

By the time they both have their treats, Clint has arrived. Bucky tells Steve that he invited Sam too while they were on their way over. At the table, Steve sits next to Peggy and Bucky immediately sits down next to Steve. However, as soon as he sits, he remembers that he forgot to get napkins and jumps right back up. As soon as he’s gone, Peggy leans toward Steve and speaks quietly so that only he can hear.

“His clothes really aren’t that bad,” she whispers. “I expected worse, much frattier attire.”

Steve chuckles, dribbling ice cream from the sides of his mouth. When Bucky comes back, he notices the strawberry ice cream spilling down Steve’s chin and he quickly hands him a napkin.

When Sam arrives, he sits down next to Bucky and immediately starts shaking his head.

“Look at this—my roommate commandeering my best bud.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Natasha cheekily chimes in. “Stevie finally comes to college and then finds new friends. Just our luck.”

“Blame Sam for introducing us,” Bucky shrugs, spooning ice cream into his mouth.

Sam’s mouth falls open. “It’s not my fault that y’all have a budding bromance.”

“Ew, don’t call it a bromance,” Steve groans.

Bucky grins., bumping his shoulder against Steve’s. “I think it’s a little bit of a bromance,” he says. Steve rolls his eyes and dramatically scoots closer to Peggy.

The rest of the time spent at the table is less focused on Steve’s friendship with Bucky, and for that he’s thankful. Peggy introduces herself to Sam, who’s never met her, but has heard plenty about her from Steve. They hit it off so well, which makes Steve oddly happy. Clint, Nat, and Bucky start talking about sports, which Steve turns a deaf ear toward. Even though he’s not exactly a part of either conversation, he’s just happy to be there—happy to be in one place with all of his friends.

“Everybody look, smile!”

“Nat, everything doesn’t need to be on snapchat.”

“My life is a masterpiece worthy of documentation.” 

Natasha lifts her phone into the air. Everyone squeezes together for the picture—Clint lays his head on Natasha’s shoulder, while Peggy wraps her arm around Nat’s waist. Sam puts bunny-ears behind Bucky’s head, and Bucky slings an arm around Steve’s shoulders. Steve carefully rests his arm around Bucky’s middle then looks up at the camera.

“Everybody say _‘Procrastination!’_ ”

They all dissolve into laughter and that’s exactly when Natasha snaps the picture. Sam’s eyes are closed, Clint is ugly-laughing, and Steve’s trying his best to keep a straight face. It’s perfect.

When Natasha snaps the picture, she adds it to her Snap story and sends it directly to Steve, Clint, and Peggy.

As Steve opens the picture, he can’t help but smile.

Bucky, who’s leaning over Steve’s shoulder, laughs and says, “Can you send that to me?” 

Steve nods. “Yeah, definitely.” Steve immediately saves the picture to his phone, and makes it his wallpaper.

“Ice cream with nerds on a Tuesday night. Turn down for what.”

 _“Natasha,”_ Peggy groans, trying to swat Nat’s phone out of her hand. “Please tell me this isn’t a video.”

“I have followers to entertain," Natasha smiles, swiping across the screen of her phone.  “Let’s add a filter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to take a second to thank you all for all of your lovely comments. They seriously make my day and I love love love reading them and getting to hear what you all think! You're all so great!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all of your lovely comments! You all have no idea how much I love reading them!

Bucky paces; he shuffles back and forth, across the room, wringing his hands. His cell phone sits on his desk, buzzing and lighting up, but he’s doing his best to ignore it. Bruce, who tries his best to let Bucky handle these things on his own, can’t idly stand by this time. Bucky’s anxiety has reached new highs today—it’s concerning.

“Bucky—hey, Bucky.” Bruce catches his attention. Bucky stops, turns toward him, and releases a shaky breath. Bruce frowns. “That’s it—you’re not going.”

“I have to go,” Bucky protests, but Bruce is already up and out of his seat. “Bruce—I _have_ to go.”

“It’s a stupid social, it’s not _important_ , Bucky. You know what’s important? Your health. Your mental health.”

“Bruce, I have to go.”

_“Bucky —”_

“I can’t keep avoiding him,” Bucky sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “We both still go here. We’re both still Greek. I can’t keep hiding from him. It’s been long enough.”

“Barely,” Bruce grumbles, clenching his hands as he leans against his bed frame. He rests his head in his hands and takes a deep breath. “I don’t want you to have to do this.”

“I’ll be fine,” Bucky tries to sound convincing. “Trust me?”

“It’s not you that I don’t trust,” Bruce sighs and walks over to Bucky, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Call me if something goes wrong.”

Bucky nods and then Bruce brings him into a quick, tight hug. It almost makes him feel better.

“Nothing’s gonna go wrong.”

He hopes.

Bucky leaves his dorm before he loses all of his courage.

He counts his steps as he walks across campus, focuses on the sound of his shoes tapping the pavement. He names every building that he walks past, tries to remember the exact classes that he’s had in every building. He concentrates on the wind, on the scent of the air, on the sun beating down on his skin. He tells himself _‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’_ even though his chest is tight, shoulders hunched, and he’s biting the inside of his cheek. Everything about him screams panic, but he refuses to let it take over.

It’s been long enough—it shouldn’t be like this anymore, right?

When he reaches Fraternity Row, he can already see his brothers gathered around a beer pong table. There’s no beer involved—campus regulations—but he’s sure that half of them have already been drinking for more than half of the day. Bucky is, unfortunately, completely sober.

“Oh man, you made it!”

Dugan barrels toward Bucky, scooping him up in a tight, drunken hug. His skin smells like whiskey and Bucky _wishes_ he could have a taste of whatever he’s been drinking.

“Yeah,” Bucky replies, not as excited. “Everyone here?”

“Oh, yeah. Been here for a while. Gabe said he texted you forever ago—where were you?”

“Uh, took a nap. Forgot to set an alarm.”

“You have time to _nap_? Lucky man.” Dugan pats Bucky on the back and leads him past the table and toward the lawn. Bucky’s Sigma Delta brothers are playing beer pong against a group of girls from Chi Nu. He recognizes a few of them and they wave, so he smiles and waves back. Mechanically. A few of Bucky’s brothers are on the lawn, throwing a Frisbee around with a group of guys from Alpha Upsilon.

That’s when Bucky freezes up.

Just the sight of their colors makes his skin crawl. Even though Bucky doesn’t see _him_ yet, seeing his brothers is enough.

“Hey!” Bucky hears Gabe calling to them a few feet over at the grill. “Barnes—you want a burger or something, man?”

“No, I’m good.” Bucky calls back. Gabe shrugs and goes back to grilling.

“You alright?” Dugan asks, gripping Bucky’s shoulder. “You look…pale. Like sick, pale.”

Bucky nods quickly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t worry, bro.” He smiles for good measure.

“Good—hey, we’re up for Ultimate Frisbee. You in?”

“No.” Bucky answers, waving his hand quickly. “I’m gonna…maybe play some beer pong with the Chi Nu girls.”

“Better choice. The blonde one over there—the one holding the ball? She’s killer. Think her name’s Sharon or something.”

“Good to know.” Bucky grins, smiles as if he’s interested, as if this excites him.

Bucky walks over to the pong table just in time to watch the Chi Nu girls annihilate his brothers. The girls start cheering, jumping up and down and hugging while his brothers sulk away from the table, egos bruised.

The blonde girl—who is actually very beautiful—smiles and tosses one of the ping pong balls in Bucky’s direction. He catches it effortlessly.

“Wanna catch a beatdown like your brothers?” She brushes off the shoulders of her pink lettered shirt with a cocky grin.

Bucky tosses the ball back to her, smiling. “No thanks—I know my place.” She catches the ball in her left hand and extends her right.

“James, right? We’ve never actually met. But I’ve heard about you—Sharon Carter.”

Bucky reaches out and shakes her hand. “Related to Peggy Carter?”

“And a friend of Steve’s.” She smiles. “They talk about you.”

Laughing nervously, Bucky says “I hope it’s all good stuff.” Steve wouldn’t tell Peggy, right? Steve is a good person—Steve wouldn’t out him. Right?

“I think lil’ Steve’s got a bit of a crush on you. Too bad for him, though—I hear you’re quite the ladies' man.” She starts rearranging the cups on the table, careful not to spill the water. “One game?”

“Fine,” Bucky agrees. “I promise not to cry when you beat me—hey, what’s the matter?” Sharon’s smile has disappeared. She’s staring straight past Bucky, scowling.

“Here comes trouble.”

Bucky turns around and he wishes that he hadn’t. The minute Bucky sees him, a sick, heavy feeling settles in his stomach. He unconsciously takes three steps back, three steps toward Sharon, and tucks his hands underneath his biceps, holding himself. Bucky tries to take a deep breath, but his airways feel as if they are shrinking.

Sharon turns and lays a hand on his forearm, a concerned expression on her face. “Hey, you alright?”

“Yeah I’m just…I’m just—”

“Hey, Barnes. Been a long time.”

Bucky’s mind is telling him to run but he has _stopped_ running. He told himself that he’s _done_ running.

“What’s up, Sherri?”

“It’s Sharon, Brock.”

Rumlow walks up to the table with his AU brother, Zemo, flanking him. Zemo waves at Bucky, smirking, and Bucky just averts his eyes.

“You guys up for some two-on-two?”

“No, actually. We’re not.” Sharon rams her thigh into the pong table, knocking over several of the cups, causing them to spill all across Rumlow’s jeans. “Oops.” She smiles, bright and pretty like a pageant queen--almost pretty enough to hide the steel behind it.

Rumlow curses under his breath and jumps away from the table to avoid the spilled water. He angrily starts toward her but Zemo pulls him back. Sharon folds her arms across her chest, jutting out her chin, not moving an inch.

“You better watch yourself, _freshman_ .” Rumlow spits out the last word like a curse. He turns his attention toward Bucky, who can’t and _won’t_ say a single word. Rumlow doesn’t say anything, but the smirk on his face is enough to make Bucky sick all over again. “See you around, _Bucky_.”

As he walks away, Sharon watches him go, with a decidedly fierce look in her eye.

“He dated my Big—Emma. For about two months. Cheated on her, treated her like shit, and acts like she doesn’t even exist now,” She turns to Bucky. “So, I hate him—what’s your story?”

Bucky just shakes his head. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“You’re…not okay. Do you need to sit down or something?”

His feet are already moving. Bucky heads to the edge of the courtyard and Sharon is quick behind him. Bucky doesn’t stop until he reaches one of the houses and plants himself against the side of it, doubling over and gripping his knees to breathe.

“Is this a panic attack? Do I need to call someone?”

“’M fine.” Bucky focuses on steadying his breathing. “I’m fine,” he repeats.

“That’s very untrue.”

“Yeah, well…” Bucky leans against the house, staring up at the sky as his breathing finally slows down. “You didn’t have to follow me.”

“You looked like you weren’t breathing. I was worried.” She walks around to face Bucky, arms still folded across her chest. “I know we don’t really know each other, but Steve and Peggy like you, so I can’t just let you die out here.”

Bucky laughs at that. He drags his hand over his face, shaking his head. “Thanks, kid.”

“You’re welcome.” Sharon tilts her head, still eyeing Bucky warily. “You wanna tell me what that was about?”

“Not really.”

“You want me to kick that guy’s ass?”

“Someone needs to.”

“What’d he do to you?” Sharon asks. “Did he hurt someone you know?”

Bucky shuts his eyes. He tries not to think of any of it—the constant fighting, the second guessing, and the never ending shame; there was always so much shame. Always.

“I don’t really want to talk about this with you. No offense.”

“None taken.” She takes a few steps back. “I should probably leave you alone.”

“That might be best.”

Nodding once, Sharon leaves without another word. Bucky didn’t want to be rude, but he can’t talk to her anymore. Not about this. Bucky takes in another deep breath, and then releases the air.

He didn’t _completely_ fall apart—that’s an accomplishment. But now, he needs a distraction. Bucky pulls out his phone and sees two texts: one from Bruce, one from Steve.

_Roomie_

_(2:09) Check in with me when you can. I’m proud of you for facing this, but I’m still concerned. Just text me._

_Pixie Stick_

_(2:15) so i’m pretty sure I just bombed my Spanish midterm. do you wanna get pizza later and mope with me?_

Bucky texts Bruce and tells him _“mild panic whn i saw him but he’s gone n im fine”_. He texts Steve back too, and Steve responds immediately.

_(2:32) i’d love some pizza. ur cool too i guess._  
_(2:33) don’t be smart. what’s your favorite?_  
_(2:33) pepperoni bc im NORMAL_  
_(2:33) you’re pushing your luck. what are you doing? are you free?_  
_(2:34) no im at a shitty social :( ill be done in like an hr_  
_(2:34) okay, so meet me in the union in an hour._  
_(2:35) stevie r u buyin me pizza????_  
_(2:35) don’t call me that—I’m not afraid to fight you, you know that_  
_(2:36) so cute when ur angry :)_

Bucky closes his eyes for a moment and finally breathes deep. His heart-seizing panic has all but disappeared—he feels like he’s returned to his body, like his feet are finally planted against the earth.

He peers over at the crowd of people in the courtyard. None of Bucky’s brothers have even noticed that he’s gone, but Sharon is at the beer pong table, casting worried glances his way. Bucky looks away. In that instant, the same old feelings of shame wash over him. He really thought that he was better—he _really_ thought that he was past this.

It’s been six months since he’s seen Brock Rumlow in person. It’s been four months since Rumlow stopped texting him—or rather, four months since Bucky blocked his number and blocked him on every social networking site. Three months since Bucky deleted every single one of their pictures and all of Rumlow’s voicemails. Two months since Bucky stopped wanting to call him—two months since Bucky deleted his number.

It is difficult, Bucky has realized, to detach oneself from someone you once cared about, even if they hurt you, over and over again.

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m not doing this,” he mutters to himself, standing up and squaring his shoulders. He doesn’t want to sit on the wall like a scared child; he doesn’t want to hide, or to look weak. He isn’t scared and he’s _not_ weak.

Rumlow isn’t stupid enough to do anything regrettable, at least not in public.

Nevertheless, Bucky skillfully avoids him, even if it means steering clear of his own brothers, who are so enamored with him. It’s not their fault—they don’t know what happened.

Bucky goes over to the grill and he talks to Gabe. Gabe is gentle and his voice is calming, even if he doesn’t know it. He chats with Bucky about some party that he went to last night, and Bucky just listens, letting Gabe’s voice drown out the panicky chatter in his head.

He texts Steve on and off, smiling and feeling just a little bit better every time his text tone sounds.

Morita and Dugan convince him to play Ultimate Frisbee with the girls from Chi Nu. Sharon and her sisters admittedly hand them their asses. She doesn’t mention what happened but she does give Bucky warm smiles and encouraging pats on the back when his team starts losing. She’s playful, sweet, and she destroys them. Bucky thinks he might really like her, after all.

He doesn’t see Rumlow again, which is a relief. There are only a few Alpha Upsilon guys left and Bucky doesn’t know any of them, which means that they’re probably freshman. Still, he doesn’t talk to them. He focuses on his brothers and the girls, who are all very likeable. Bucky meets Sharon’s Big, Emma, who is probably the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his life, and the wittiest. If he wasn’t entirely into guys, this definitely would be the kind of girl he’d go after. He’s a sucker for blue-eyed blondes with sharp tongues.

She reminds him of Steve, and thinking about Steve always sends Bucky’s heart aflutter. He holds onto these good feelings, keeps them the way that coins are kept in rainy day jars. The thought of seeing Steve again gets him through the social—the thought of seeing Steve could probably get him through anything.

When the social ends—after rounds upon rounds of Ultimate Frisbee, stuffing his face with food, and taking a multitude of selfies and group pictures—Bucky finally leaves. He says goodbye to his brothers and, somehow, Sharon swindles him into exchanging numbers. She reminds Bucky of Peggy, in that she’s very sweet, but could probably destroy you if she wanted to.

As Bucky leaves, with a clearer head and a lighter step, he gets another text from Steve:

_Pixie Stick_

_(3:45) alright so, the union is crowded. i got the pizza. meet me on the lawn? i’ll be near the LARPers. they’re fun to watch._

Bucky smiles and heads off to find Steve. Surely enough, Steve’s on the lawn in front of Erskine Hall, watching the LARP group beat the hell out of one another with foam swords. Dressed in a red t-shirt and faded blue jeans and sipping from a bottle of coke, he looks completely at peace. Steve turns just in time to see Bucky approaching and the smile on his face is so bright, so _warm_ , that Bucky has to stop himself from swooning.

“Hey,” Bucky plops down beside Steve, who immediately hands him his own bottle of soda. Bucky rests his hand against his chest. “So thoughtful.”

“I try,” Steve opens the pizza box and pulls out a slice, biting into it immediately. With a mouth full of cheese, he still talks. “So my midterm was half written, half listening,”

Bucky picks up a slice of pizza and lies on his back in the grass, staring up at Steve. “Go on.”

“And I’m pretty confident that I passed the written part, because I mean, when you’re looking at words in Spanish, they’re kind of similar to English words. I mean my spelling is shit but, no points off for spelling,” Steve takes another bite from his pizza and sighs. “But then we get to the listening section and everything just falls apart.”

“C’mon—lay it on me,”

“It was so typical—the whole, listen to this recording, answer questions about the conversation, translate what the speaker says—it was a train wreck.”

Trying not to laugh, Bucky turns to Steve with the most over exaggerated, saddened expression and says “Aw, _pobrecito_.”

Steve looks almost _offended_ . “ _What?”_ He’s coughing, choking on his food.

Bucky starts laughing, covering his smile with his hand. “Dude, I took like, six years of Spanish. Four in high school, two years here. I’m taking another class this summer—I’m hella bilingual.”

“I’m trying to complain here, and you’re interrupting with your bragging.”

“Oh I’m sorry—please, continue.”

“It’s too late, you ruined the moment.”

“No, come on don’t be like that—finish. Hey, look—I put my listening ears on.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“You asked for this!”

Steve rolls his eyes. “The moral of the story is that I suck at Spanish, I’m suffering, and I’m mad about it.” His shoulders sag and he groans. “I just wanna pass this class. I even have a friend who’s sort of unofficially tutoring me. She seriously knows five languages—she is on _top_ of this. And yet, I can’t be saved.”

“I’m sorry, pal—that really blows.”

Steve sighs again. “It does.” He finishes his pizza in two bites and then picks up another slice, which he devours in seconds. Bucky is in awe.

“Are you like, one of those people who eats when they get upset?”

“Yes,” Steve answers, voice muffled. “Emotional eater. Got it from my dad. He used to—” Steve laughs then, shaking his head a little. “Whenever he and my mom would get into a fight, he would go all the way to the bakery across town, buy a german chocolate cake, and eat the entire thing, all by himself. It was _hilarious_.”

Bucky nods, chuckling lightly. “That explains everything,” he teases. “I’m sure the two of you could eat your poor ma out of house and home.”

Steve smiles thoughtfully then, and Bucky watches him shake his head as a faraway expression takes over his face. “Actually, my dad died when I was twelve.”

Immediately, Bucky feels awful, and extremely guilty. Trust him to bring up someone else’s sore spots.  He shrinks into himself, just the slightest bit. “Shit—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to like…dig up any bad stuff.”

Shaking his head, Steve says, “It’s not bad stuff,” He shrugs a little. “I mean, it happened a long time ago. Doesn’t make it hurt any less but, I’m older. I’ve processed it.”

“I bet he was a good guy,” Bucky says. Steve eyes him curiously and Bucky clears his throat, waving his hands around. “I mean—you know, because you…you’re like? Good? You’re a good guy,” he sputters, embarrassed.

Steve is still smiling. “I think my dad was a great guy,” he echoes. “He was always great to my mom, and he honestly taught me what it meant to be a good person. I miss him, you know?” Bucky just nods. He understands, far more than Steve realizes. “What are your parents like?”

Bucky freezes up, just like he always does. It’s not purposeful—it’s just that he’s not used to talking about his personal life. Sam and Bruce? They know everything there is to know. His brothers know just enough to get by, but not enough for them to pity him. But, Steve? Steve is new—Steve doesn’t know a thing, and this is both refreshing and terrifying. Refreshing, because he has no expectations and there is no judgement. Terrifying, because letting people in is like ripping off old Band-Aids—painful, every time.

“So,” Bucky begins, crossing his legs and folding his hands in-between them. “I was adopted when I was thirteen?” It comes out like a question, like a strange, awkward question and Bucky immediately follows it by clearing his throat and talking as fast as he can. “My parents were like, not great and some not-so-great stuff happened and so, you know, adoption. Sam’s family adopted me. ‘S why we’ve known each other for so long.”

Steve nods slowly, with a contemplative expression on his face. Bucky waits—for the pity, for the questions, for the poking and prodding at his brain. He waits for the look on Steve’s face that says _I feel sorry for you._ He waits for the uncomfortable silence.

But none of that comes.

“Okay—so tell me what they’re like.”

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief, as if the weight of the world has been lifted off his shoulders. He doesn’t know whether he should hug Steve or kiss him—he does neither, but he’s still so thankful.

“They’re the _best_ , Steve,” Bucky starts, shaking his hands for emphasis. “Paul is this real cool dude, right? He’s a minister for this super nice church. And I’m really not religious, but sometimes I’d go on Sundays just to hear his sermon. He’s like, so passionate about it? And I really respect that, you know?” Bucky takes a deep breath and continues. “And Darlene? Probably the sweetest woman you’ll ever meet. I mean—she’s the kind of person who’d give you her last dime. Always giving. She used to teach but she retired a few years back, so now she does like, outreach in the community with kids. And she fosters kids still, which is like really great.”

“They sound like awesome people.” Steve observes, smiling widely.

Excitedly, Bucky nods. “They are. I mean, I wouldn’t be who I am—where I am—without them.”

“That’s what family is supposed to do—build you up. Put you on the right path,” Steve agrees.

“Definitely. That’s…that’s exactly what they did for me, and Sam too. Coolest parents anyone could want.”

“Do you two get to go home often?” Steve asks.

Bucky shrugs. “Sam does. I’m always workin’.” He admits. “But I always get back for the holidays, so it’s not too bad.”

“Sam told me he was from Harlem. Is that still home for you guys?”

Shaking his head, Bucky replies “No, we moved up to Long Island about three years ago. Sam doesn’t love it, but Paul and Darlene do. Happened right after he and I came here, not surprisingly. House with no kids is probably nice,” Bucky grins, exhaling slowly. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to like, unload all that on you.”

“No,” Steve tells him. “It was nice. I like hearing about your life, and your family.” He smiles then, one of those big gorgeous smiles that makes Bucky’s heart beat just a little bit faster. “I think you’re interesting and—well, I always wanna know more about you so, yeah.”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck shyly, looking away from Steve so he won’t do or say something dumb or let his feelings slip.

Waving one hand around his head, Bucky tells Steve “I keep everything all _bundled_ up there,” He shrugs. “It’s like—I wanna say stuff sometimes but, it’s hard to put it into words? And sometimes I’m like, I don’t wanna bother people with my stupid stuff.”

“Your stuff isn’t stupid,” Steve insists. “You can tell me anything you feel like you wanna tell me. I’m a pretty good listener.”

“You are,” Bucky agrees. “Alright—pizza’s getting cold.”

“Who’s the emotional eater now?”

“Don’t even!” Bucky laughs.

Steve takes another bite before drinking a considerable amount of coke. “So,” he starts, glancing over at Bucky, who’s lying down on the ground again. “How was your social?”

Bucky cringes. _Just be honest_ , he tells himself. Steve is good—Steve is honest. He tells himself, _you can be good and honest too_.

“It wasn’t great,” Bucky spits out the words before he can take them back. “I…ran into my ex—not a real great person. Spent half the time avoiding them. But!” He holds a finger in the air. “I _did_ meet Peggy’s cousin, Sharon—I really like her.”

Smiling fondly, Steve nods. “Sharon’s great. I mean, she’s terrifying—”

“Definitely noticed that.”

“—But she’s a great girl,” Steve picks up his third slice of pizza. “I forgot she was doing the whole Greek thing.”

“Doin’ it well. Her sisters are nice—they were all at our social. Murdered us at Ultimate Frisbee.”

“Sharon’s sporty—Peggy too. Both of them played literally every sport in high school. The two of them work out for _fun_.”

“I work out for fun?”

“Well, you’re all gross and fratty so it doesn’t count.”

Bucky gasps, laughing aloud. “Wow, man—tell me how you _really_ feel.”

Steve shakes his head but he lies down in the grass beside Bucky, who’s sitting up cross-legged again.

“So, you said you saw your ex?”

Inhaling deeply, Bucky nods. “Yeah.”

“And you avoided them?”

“Yeah.”

Steve pauses. “You don’t want to talk about this.”

“No it’s not—listen, it’s not that. I’m just real bad at talking about it.” Bucky sighs to himself, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palms. He glances around, already nervous because they’re out in the open. But Steve is laying there smiling, and his smile is so warm, and so encouraging, that Bucky feels courage gripping his heart. He stares off onto the lawn, watching the LARPers attack one another, trying to let his anxiety fall to the background.

“So I dated this… _guy_ ,” Bucky clasps his hands in his lap. “First and last kind of thing, you know? Knew him from high school, or whatever. It was…it was good ‘til it wasn’t. He was just a bad guy—I mean, he didn’t like hit me or nothin’, but the things he _said_ —” Bucky stops himself, feeling anxious and worried that he’s said too much. He shakes his head, resolving to say nothing more.

“I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“Yeah, well.” Bucky shrugs dismissively.

“Nobody deserves to be treated like that.” He’s not looking at Steve but he can tell by the sound of his voice that he is honestly upset. “I don’t like people like that—overgrown bullies, is what they are. Sounds like he needs his ass kicked.”

Tucking his hair behind his ear, Bucky smiles. It’s slow, but it’s genuine. A small laugh escapes him before he responds.

“You gonna be my knight in shinin’ armor, Rogers?”

“You want me to kick his ass? I’ll kick his ass.”

Bucky’s laughter builds. “So small, but so full of rage—it’s honestly impressive,” He chuckles. “No, I don’t want you to kick his ass; Sam has already offered. It’s really fine—if anyone ever clocks the guy, it’ll be me.”

Steve folds his bony arms over his chest, huffing. “You deserve better.” He’s frowning— _pouting_ more like--and the way his blonde bangs hang across his forehead makes him look less than intimidating.

In that moment, Bucky could swear that his stomach does a flip. His chest starts fluttering again; he feels his face heating up and he looks away from Steve, turning his attention to the LARPers again, who are still battling vehemently with foam swords.

“You’re sweet.”

That’s all he can say, because sometimes he isn’t sure—sometimes he isn’t sure _what_ he deserves.

____________________________________________

 

Art History is admittedly one of the most boring classes that Steve has ever taken. It doesn’t help that it’s midnight, on a Thursday, when he’s already had a midterm and a presentation (both of which went terribly) and decided that it was a good idea to sit out in the sun with Bucky for four hours. As much fun as _that_ was, Steve’s zapped of all energy.

He’s lying in the middle of the floor of Clint’s dorm, flipping through the pages of his textbook, hoping that the words will just reach his brain through the power of hope.

He decided to come to Clint’s room for a variety of reasons, the first reason being that Sam and T’Challa were working on a group project in their room and Steve didn’t want to interrupt. The second reason was that Clint’s room was perfect for studying—Clint is relatively quiet. When he knows it’s time to buckle down, he offers no distractions, unlike Natasha who can’t pay attention to save her life. Finally, Clint _always_ has food, and since Steve is a bottomless pit, he knew this would be the right place to go.

Clint is lying on his bed, tossing a tennis ball up and down in the air while reciting the alphabet backwards. Steve isn’t sure why he’s doing that but he’s never really sure why Clint does half the things he does. His cluttered dorm is uncharacteristically quiet and Steve already knows what’s missing.

“Hey, Clint—where’s Nat?” Steve asks. A few moments of silence pass and Clint doesn’t answer. Steve turns around and sits up, glancing over at Clint. He waves his hand in the air until he gets Clint’s attention and then signs _‘Are you wearing your hearing aid?’_ to which Clint verbally answers.

“Nope.” Clint reaches underneath his pillow and pulls out the small bud. Steve tells him that’s a horrible place to keep them, but Clint doesn’t hear him. He turns the hearing aid on and places the bud in his ear. “Now, what?”

“I said that’s a horrible place to keep your hearing aids.” Steve tells him, still signing. “Also, I asked you where Nat is.”

Clint shrugs. “No clue. Where’s _your_ other half?” Steve, confused, tilts his head to the side. Clint laughs. “Barnes—Bucky.”

“Stop—he’s not my—no.” Steve rolls his eyes, rolling over on the floor. “I hung out with him earlier today. That’s the last time I talked to him.”

“I like that guy,” Clint admits. “Seems pretty chill in a weird, fratty kinda way. Kinda feel like he could bench press me though, which is terrifying.”

Steve barks out a laugh, clutching his chest. “He’s not _that_ strong.”

“Have you _seen_ his arms, man? Puts me to shame.”

Yes, Steve has seen his arms and has promptly ignored him because he doesn’t need Bucky’s muscles becoming the stuff of his dreams. Steve sighs just thinking about this—about Bucky. Earlier today, he was able to put aside his feelings. Bucky was different today; Steve couldn’t pinpoint exactly _how_ he was different, but something had been off. So Steve made himself force his feelings down and away, while he let Bucky talk.

However, it all starts to bubble up to the surface, as soon as Clint brings up the subject.

“Clint,” Steve begins with a heavy sigh. “Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah, man—whatever.”

“No, not whatever—I need you to be a vault right now.”

“Shit,” Clint sits straight up in his bed, tossing his tennis ball aside. “The last time you asked me to be a vault, it was that time you told me that your mom had caught you elbow deep in gay p—”

“Can we not revisit that.” Steve shakes his head, trying to wipe away _that_ memory. “Seriously, man.”

“Okay, I got this,” Clint says, exhaling quickly. “Give it to me.”

Breathing deeply, Steve nods. “So…I think I really, _really_ have a thing for Bucky.” Steve confesses. “And it’s not just a kid crush? You know? I’m not gonna fawn over him just because he’s good-looking or something—he _is_ good-looking, but that’s shallow.” Steve shakes his head. “Clint, he’s…he’s a _really_ good guy. And today we talked a lot, and I can tell that he’s been through a lot of shit. But he’s still so… _good_ you know?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve rakes his fingers through his own hair as he talks. “I mean he’d have every right to be sad or angry but he’s not. He smiles and he laughs and he’s _good_. And thoughtful. And sweet.  And he _cares_ about people.” Groaning, Steve presses his palms to the sides of his face. “I have the _biggest_ crush on him and it’s never gonna go anywhere.”

“Never say never?”

“No, really it’s not—he’s not…” Steve’s voice trails off. He thinks about the night at the bar, the night that Bucky said _‘I like you’_ and in the same breath, said _‘I don’t know’_ and panicked when his brother saw him within a foot of Steve. Bucky’s not ready, Steve knows that. Which is why he’s keeping his feelings to himself. Bucky doesn’t need that pressure. “It’s never gonna happen.”

“I’m sorry, buddy.” Clint says, and Steve can tell that he means it. “Do you feel better now?”

“Yeah.”

“Any last words before I close up the vault?”

“He has the _worst_ fashion sense, but _god_ I have never seen a man pull off Bermuda shorts, bro tanks, and snapbacks as well as he does. I’m so into it and _so_ pissed about it.” Steve exhales slowly. “Okay that’s it. I’m done.”

“Alright pal, closing up shop.” Clint throws away the figurative key. “So are you hungry? We can go downstairs—I’ve got this 12-minute chicken alfredo stuff? It’s great.”

Immediately, Steve shuts his textbook and Clint pulls a frozen bag of pasta out of the mini-fridge. They head downstairs to the communal kitchen—Steve carrying bowls and forks, while Clint carries the food and a frying pan.

As they walk down to the first floor, Steve feels his phone buzzing away in his back pocket. He waits until they reach the large, empty kitchen before checking the texts.

_Bucky Barnes_

_(12:21) ok so ive been like goin over this in my head for hours nw but im always gonna be bad w/words so like_  
_(12:22) thanks for lettin me tell u all tht shit today man u were real cool abt it_  
_(12:22) idk why today was truth bomb day but it was so like, u kno, thanks_  
_(12:23) ur really great steve_

It takes Steve a minute to catch his breath after reading the messages. His heart is in his throat and he’s trying his best to keep his feelings under wraps. But his smile keeps spreading across his face, and his heart keeps doing somersaults in his chest. It isn’t until Clint claps a hand against Steve’s shoulder and says ‘Vault’s closed buddy, let’s get cookin’ that he snaps out of it.

He texts Bucky back, though. He doesn’t add the heart emoji at the end, even though he wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> raise your hand if you feel personally victimized by Slow Burn™  
> find me on tumblr and tell me about it  
> queerimagination.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all seriously leave the best comments. They fuel the flame of this fic.

Early Friday morning, Sam walks into the room wearing a perplexed expression. He’s holding a brown paper bag with his name written on it in purple ink, and a smiley face drawn next to it. Steve quirks a curious eyebrow before Sam asks:

“Why was there a bag of condoms taped to our door, with my name on it?”

“Probably because I already got my bag and Darcy didn’t want you to miss out.”

_“What?”_

“Oh—you missed that yesterday,” Steve laughs. “Darcy did this weird Safe Sex PSA thing yesterday and gave those out.”

Sam drops the bag on his desk, shaking his head “That’s weird.”

“It was very weird,” Steve agrees, pausing. “There’s mouthguards too.”

“How inclusive,” Sam shrugs. “At least she’s trying.”

“She called herself a glorified babysitter.”

“I mean, it’s not completely untrue? Last weekend I saw her writing out an incident report while holding back the hair of a puking freshman. It was impressive.”

Sam closes the door behind him and walks straight over to his dresser. He starts rifling through the drawers, pulling out items of clothing.

“Going to the gym?” Steve asks, lazily flipping through an article for his Women’s Studies class. It’s so early in the morning that he’s still half asleep and isn’t absorbing any of the information. Thankfully, he doesn’t have class until eleven, so he still has some time to wake up.

“Nah, gonna shower and then go grab breakfast. You wanna come?”

Staring down at the half-read article, Steve immediately decides that breakfast is a much better option.

Both Steve and Sam take quick showers before they head to the East Caf for breakfast. Steve throws on a pair of sunglasses and makes sure to bring his materials for class, because he figures he’ll stay out until he has to leave for class. The weather’s nice and neither his asthma nor his allergies are bothering him, so staying outside might actually be good today.

It’s still around nine in the morning when they reach the Cafeteria; not surprisingly, it’s very empty. Most of the students inside are either recovering from a Thursday-night hangover, or guzzling down enough coffee to get them through the last day of the week and the final day of midterms. Steve, thankfully, only had one midterm (a Spanish midterm, which he’s still sure that he failed). For his drawing class, they had to turn in their sketchbooks, which they were required to draw in every night. Accompanying each drawing, the professor required them to write five to seven sentences about their personal progress and goals—it was simple enough. They’ve been working on perspective and contour for a while, so most of Steve’s drawings focused on these skills. He draws Natasha quite a lot, just because her facial structure is to _die_ for, and he spends a lot of time sketching the older buildings on campus, because they’re a lot more beautiful than the modern ones.

For Steve’s Women’s Studies class, his professor asked them to read, analyze, and thoughtfully respond to one of the journal articles they read, while synthesizing the concepts they’d gone over in class. This all happened in one class period and Steve hadn’t even known that it was going to be their midterm grade—he would’ve tried harder, had he known.

Thankfully, Steve’s Art History midterm had been pushed back a week. Honestly, he wasn’t sure if he’d learned anything yet, so he was grateful for this.

“Are you going home?” Sam asks, as he piles bacon onto his plate. “For fall break, I mean. We’ve got Monday and Tuesday off—should be nice.”

Steve shakes his head and spoons a good amount of eggs onto his own plate. “Nope,” he answers. “I thought about it but my ma’s working crazy hours for the next few days, so I’d be home alone anyway.”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, understanding. “My mom’s back in Harlem working with one of the community youth groups for two weeks, so it’ll be me and my dad.”

“Bucky isn’t going home?”

For a second, Sam’s eyes widen in surprise. He puts the tongs down against the food tray and grins.

“He told you,” Sam says, matter-of-factly.

Steve nods, a little confused. “Was he not supposed to…?”

Sam shakes his head. “No—no, it’s just. Bucky is…Bucky’s a pretty private person. He doesn’t really talk about his personal life, you know?” Sam shrugs, picking up the tongs and adding more bacon to his plate. “ _Anyway_ , no he’s not coming home. Pretty sure he’s working. You two should hang out, keep each other company. Campus gets lonely during breaks.”

“Uh, right,” Steve answers, adding hash browns and pancakes to his plate. They go around the cafeteria and fill their plates and grab drinks before finding seats in the middle at a small table. They begin to eat immediately, and Steve guzzles down a hot cup of coffee before it cools, burning his tongue and lips in the process. He really isn’t supposed to have much coffee, but ever since he got to school, he’s been obsessed with it.

“Any plans for when you get home?” He asks Sam, mid-sip.

“We have a pool now so, definitely that,” Sam happily brags. “And I think my pops wants me to help him do some work around the house, he’s building a sunroom—it’s annoying how they’re doing all this cool stuff now that Bucky and I are gone.” Sam rolls his eyes, taking a few bites of the enormous waffle on his plate.

“I _wish_ my Ma would do more things for herself, now that I’m out of the house,” Steve sighs. “All she does is work and worry over me from hundreds of miles away. I want her to have a life, you know? She spent most of it taking care of me so it’s only right.”

“People sign up for twenty-one years of service when they have kids—she’s almost done,” Sam jokes.

Steve laughs a little but still, he knows that’s not true. His mother has done far more than the average parent. Her entire life, from the day that Steve was born, has revolved around him and making sure that he stayed healthy. When Steve’s dad died, things got even tougher, because she had to do it all alone—and when Steve’s heart went bad, that’s when things hit rock bottom for his mother. Steve loves her, _adores her_ , for taking care of him all this time, but he just wants her to be able to enjoy her life, now that he’s healthy and on his own.

“My mother’s a saint and she works way too hard.” Thinking about his mother reminds Steve that he hasn’t talked to her in at _least_ a week—he’ll definitely be in trouble for that. He can already hear his mother’s worried voice ringing in his ear, scolding him gently. “She’s a single mom who thinks she’s Superwoman.”

“Dude, all single moms are Superwoman,” Sam points out. Steve laughs again and keeps eating. “Women don’t need us, man. They just tolerate us.”

“That sounds like something Nat would say,” Steve notes.

Eyes widening, Sam nods. “Seriously, she’s like…flawless and terrifying. I’ve never known a girl like her in my life.”

“Trust me, I know. We’ve been friends since like, middle school. I don’t think she even had an ugly phase.”

“Yeah, that’s doubtful,” Sam agrees, chuckling. “I’ve crept through your Facebook pictures by now—she’s always looked amazing.”

“Oh, god—you went through my pictures on Facebook? How deep did you get?”

“Deep, pal. Deep.” Sam smirks. “I never pegged you as a thick-rimmed glasses, skinny-jeans kind of guy.”

“I’m not proud of that.”

Sam barks out a loud laugh. “Oh man, everybody has a weird phase they’re not proud of. Mine? Sweater-vests.”

_“No.”_

“It was a dark time in my life,” Sam confesses. “Riley had an emo phase. Bucky…Bucky was blonde once.”

“Oh, no.”

“Don’t tell him I told you but definitely add him on Facebook and creep.”

Steve whips out his phone and goes straight to Facebook.

“Done.”

“Make sure you like every single picture of him with blonde hair.”

“He’ll hate me!”

“Not possible—do it.”

Later on, when Bucky accepts Steve’s friend request, he does it. He immediately receives several frantic texts:

_(10:12) why r u doin this_   
_(10:12) these r not pics ur sposed to see_   
_(10:12) oh my god steve stop_   
_(10:13) this is sams fault i kno it_   
_(10:13) dont judge me fr my past mistakes steve_

Steve texts him back and it’s just two rows of upside down smiley faces.

After they finish breakfast, Sam heads off to his first and only class for the day. After his class, he plans on leaving for home. Sam hugs Steve and Steve tells him to have fun over break. Sam promises to send Steve all his fun pictures from his parent’s new pool.

Steve’s first class is at one. He’s got a little under two hours to kill, so he heads to the Union lawn. Once he gets there, he finds that all of the benches are taken, but there’s plenty of space in the grass. For a while, he just sits, relaxing in the sun and enjoying its warmth. As usual, the union space is packed—there’s people longboarding, some have set up hammocks between the trees, and some people are actually tanning in the grass. In all the strange ruckus, there’s a sort of peace.

Abruptly, his phone dings in his pocket. It’s a snapchat from Bucky. Steve opens it immediately. Bucky’s at the gym, ridiculously sweaty, hair sticking to his face, and wearing a neon-yellow snapback. He’s frowning at the camera.

“I want you to know that I hate you, Rogers. I really do. I’m digging through your pictures next—it’s all fair game.”

Steve pulls his sunglasses down and takes a selfie with a Cheshire-grin on his face, plastering the middle finger emoji at the bottom of the picture, along with the words “you suck”. Bucky calls him a hipster for wearing Raybans and Steve calls him a “fake ass 8th grade Billie Joe Armstrong”.

In the next five minutes, Steve gets about twenty notifications on his phone and they’re all comments from Facebook. “gross” “wow u nerd” “thick rimmed glasses wow hipster” are just a few of Bucky’s colorful comments. Steve is laughing harder than ever and, as much as he should be angry that Bucky is spamming him, he’s just happy that they’re talking. He hates to admit it, but talking to Bucky has become the highlight of his day. Every time Bucky texts him, Steve’s heart jumps in his chest and a fluttery feeling settles in his stomach. Even though he knows this crush is hopeless, Steve can’t escape his feelings.

Aside from Peggy, Steve can’t remember the last person he had this sort of crush on. For all intents and purposes, he _shouldn’t_ even have this crush—but Steve has never really had a practical heart.

After Bucky stops spamming him, Steve puts his phone away and pulls out his sketchbook. He flips through until he finds a blank page. He picks up the pencil that was tucked between the pages and begins sketching. And after half an hour, when Steve’s lazy sketch turns into Bucky’s face, Steve tries to ignore his own embarrassment. He’s spent so much time staring at him that he can draw him from _memory_ . It’s just that Bucky’s face is _perfect_. His jawline is Hollywood-worthy, his smile is flawless, and Steve could literally sketch his cheekbones for days. There’s nothing about Bucky’s face that isn’t art.

Steve is so enthralled in the drawing that he almost makes himself late for class. He jumps up, brushes all the eraser shavings off his clothes, and walks to class as fast as he can without looking like he’s sprinting.

He spends a grueling hour in his Art History class, taking notes and barely listening to his professor’s lecture. Half of the class is absent because it’s the weekend of Fall Break, and so the professor gives ten extra credit points to everyone who showed up.

After this, Steve heads to his Spanish class where, thankfully, Wanda is present. She saves him his usual seat next to her, at the front of the lecture hall. She’s snacking on a ziploc bag full of pistachios and slides them toward Steve.

“Do you have plans for break?” she asks. Their professor has yet to arrive, so it’s safe to speak in English.

Shrugging, Steve shakes his head. “Not really. Staying here—probably gonna catch up on sleep and get ahead on some assignments. You?”

“Forcing Pietro to spend time with me,” Wanda deadpans. “Now that all his weird friends will be gone.”

Steve laughs because he knows she’s completely serious. “Sounds like a good plan.” He takes a couple of the pistachios and breaks them open. “When you get tired of him being all fratty, call me.”

Wanda rolls her eyes dramatically, which only makes Steve laugh even more. When he takes his phone out of his pocket to check the time, he sees another text from Bucky:

_(2:02) sam told me ur stayin for break. we should like, hang out or whatever._

Steve smiles and quickly texts back.

_(2:02) yeah, we should._

**____________________________________________________**

“Are you sure you can’t get those days off? Pops misses you. He won’t actually _admit it_ , but he misses you.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nah, I need the money.” He shrugs. “I’ll come home for Thanksgiving.”

They’re in Sam’s room and he’s packing away his clothes for break. He’s got a tiny black suitcase and he neatly rolls all of his clothes so that they’ll fit, tight and compact—Bucky is sure that it’s something he learned in ROTC or the Army because normal people don’t pack like this.

As Sam packs, Bucky looks around the room, eyes lingering specifically on Steve’s side. It’s much more vibrant and colorful than Sam’s. His walls are covered in posters—more than one of David Bowie—and some depicting recreations of famous paintings that Bucky doesn’t know the names of. Steve’s got pictures from home tacked up on his walls and his desk too. Soon, Bucky’s eyes are drawn to the wide, massive pride flag that’s hung up on Steve’s wall. He starts to feel the same old ache in his chest and he tries to fight it, but it’s too late—what he would give to be as brave as Steve.

He pulls his eyes away.

“If you didn’t come home for Thanksgiving, Mom would flip. You’re lucky she’s not home this weekend or she’d be dragging your sorry ass all the way back to Long Island,” Sam pauses, tucking a rolled-up pair of jeans in the corner of his suitcase. “You should call her more often.”

“I know.”

“I know you think she’s mad at you, but she’s not.”

Bucky nods. “I know.”

“I can tell when you’re lying.”

Sighing, Bucky rolls his eyes and plops down in the chair at Sam’s desk. _“I know.”_ He already knows where this conversation is going. He watches Sam push his suitcase away and sit down in the middle of the floor, on his ratty red rug.

“You know they’d help you with money if you just _asked_.”

“I know that,” Bucky says. “But I don’t need help.”

“Says the guy who’s gotten about fifteen hours of sleep this week. Trust me—I see the timestamps on your tweets, Bucky.” Sam sighs, gaze softening, voice lowering. “If you would just let them help you pay for tuition, you wouldn’t have to—”

“Listen, I know you’re trying to help, but I’m not changin’ my mind,” Bucky cuts in. “Last year, I had it good. I had scholarships, I was an RA, and shit was covered. Then everything fell apart—my fault—so, now I’m fixing it.”

“Last year was _not_ your fault.” Sam insists, frowning. “Your grades dropped because some abusive asshole was messing with your head—you are not at fault here.”

“Yeah, well.” Bucky doesn’t feel like arguing. No matter what Sam says, he knows that it’s his fault that he lost all of his scholarships, and his fault that he got fired from his job. Rumlow was a part of it, yes, but Bucky feels like he should’ve fought harder, like he should’ve done more.

“It’s not your fault,” Sam persists. “And Mom and Pops don’t think it was your fault either, even though you won’t tell them what happened.”

“What’s the point? It’s over.”

“Is it though, Buck? Is it really over for you?”

Bucky shuts his eyes. “I can’t tell them, Sam,” Bucky’s voice is low, barely above a whisper. It hurts him to even speak on this, but he does it because he really wants Sam to understand. “They didn’t raise me to be weak, and I was. Weak enough to let some asshole ruin everything for me.”

“Bucky, you are _not_ weak.” Sam’s eyes are wide and pained and Bucky doesn’t want to look at him. “That guy was a jackass, and he hurt you, but that doesn’t say anything about you as a person—that doesn’t make you weak. Yeah, you lost your scholarships and your job, but you didn’t give up. You’re picking up all the pieces and you’re trying to do better—that’s not something a weak person can do, Bucky.”

“Sam…”

“No, listen—listen, you’re struggling to make ends meet but you don’t have to do that, Bucky. You’re treating this like…like penance, or something. You didn’t do anything wrong. Shit happens, man.” Sam stands up from the floor and rests a firm hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Ask for help when you need it, seriously.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you should be a motivational speaker?” Bucky jokes, trying to take the edge off. Sam remains unmoved and relentless.

“ _Seriously_ ,” Sam repeats. “Talk to them. You weren’t home all summer, Bucky. They really miss you and they wanna be there for you. You just have to let them.”

Exhaling deeply, Bucky nods. “I’ll call them,” he promises. “It’s just…hard. Hard to explain. I wish I knew how to say everything I’m thinking. But…everything just gets _stuck_ ,” Bucky admits.

“My offer from last semester still stands,” Sam adds. “I will go with you—to the counseling center. Whenever.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “I’m doing a lot better than I was in the spring. I haven’t felt _that_ way in a while now.”

“Still a good place to go.” Sam shrugs. “I’m not gonna push it because I know how you get. But I will say this—there’s no shame in it, alright? No shame at all.”

Smiling softly, Bucky looks up at Sam and sighs. “You’re the best brother a guy could ask for, you know?”

“And yet, you still joined a weird ass fraternity.”

“Low blow, dude. I was being sentimental there.”

Sam laughs to himself and returns to packing. Bucky sits very still in the chair and tries to process the conversation without hurling himself into a panic.

It’s true that he hasn’t been home since last spring; it’s not that he doesn’t want to see his parents, it’s just that he can’t bring himself to go home yet. He’s got nothing to show for—he’s got a job that pays less than what he needs and a mediocre GPA from last semester’s failings. Sam, on the other hands, has almost perfect grades and is balancing his classes and the army effortlessly. Bucky has always wished that he were more like Sam, but even more so now.

Bucky feels like a disappointment. Paul and Darlene raised him from the time he was thirteen until the day he moved out and came to college. They taught him how to be strong, how to be successful, and how to make the world work for him. Nevertheless, he can’t shake the twelve years he spent with his biological parents. Twelve years of confusion, hurt, and constant feelings of inadequacy and failure. It’s something that he just can’t erase, something that lurks in the back of his mind whenever something goes wrong. He blames himself for every wrong thing that has happened in his life, even if he knows it’s not true.

He's working on it, though, trying to get better. The whole fiasco with Rumlow was a major setback, but Bucky pulled himself back up, as much as he could.

The sound of the zipper on Sam’s suitcase dragging along its track shakes Bucky from his reverie.

“I’m telling Pops that you’re gonna call. Or at least text.”

Bucky nods; he can handle a text.

He walks with Sam to the student parking lot and tries not to feel guilty for not getting in the car and going home with him.

The student population slowly trickles out of the campus. The parking lots are ghost towns, but the streets are packed, traffic jammed by everyone rushing home. The sounds of angry, rushed horns honking echoes through the streets.

Bucky wanders around campus, enjoying its sudden, quiet emptiness. He thinks about texting Steve but he panics as soon as he starts the text. Something inside him is tugging, telling him he shouldn’t do it, that he should leave Steve alone. He takes out his phone at least three times and on the third time, as it turns out, he doesn’t need to text Steve because Steve is the one who texts him.

_(3:00) did you want to do something today? My last class ends in like ten minutes._

A warm feeling spreads inside Bucky’s chest and he finds himself smiling down at his phone.

_(3:00) wheres ur class?  
(3:00) williams hall? why? _

Bucky doesn’t answer. He takes a sharp left and heads toward Williams Hall. At the thought of seeing Steve, Bucky starts feeling almost _giddy_. He feels like smiling and laughing, even though he’s just walking alone through a quiet campus. Waiting for Steve outside the building feels like waiting for Christmas, with all the excitement and the butterflies. Bucky has to hold his own hands just to keep himself calm.

He hears footsteps before he sees people. A mass of students bursts through the doors and Bucky’s eyes rapidly dart around, searching for Steve in the crowd. When Bucky sees him, he immediately calls out to him and waves. Steve spots Bucky and his eyes light up. He waves someone over and Bucky watches as the brown-haired girl with thick eyeliner and too many bracelets follows behind Steve with a subtle scowl on her face.

“Bucky!” Steve’s smile is so bright—it’s making Bucky’s heart ache. “You didn’t have to come all the way here.”

“Maybe I wanted to walk with you or whatever.” Bucky speaks hurriedly, words tumbling out of his mouth like dominoes falling against one another. He doesn’t miss Steve’s blush, but he hopes Steve misses his. Quickly, Bucky turns to the girl and flashes a smile. “Hey, Wanda.”

“James.”

Bucky pretends not to notice that she hates him.

“Hey—the OCA is doing a movie marathon on the north side of campus tonight. Do you wanna go?” Steve asks quickly. “Wanda and Peggy are coming too—maybe Nat, if she decides to leave tomorrow morning instead of tonight.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Bucky replies, almost saddened by the fact that Steve didn’t ask _just_ him. “What kind of movies?”

“Disney.” Steve smiles. Bucky can tell that he’s trying to contain his excitement, but he’s doing a terrible job. “I kind of love Disney movies.”

“The film critic loves Disney movies—isn’t that something,” Bucky jokes. “What time does it start?”

“Five, I think? I have to check the campus updates again,” Steve pauses and a thoughtful expression comes over his face. “We have to get snacks,” He looks up at Bucky with an almost embarrassed smile. “Are you up for this? You don’t have to—I don’t wanna drag you along.”

“Steve I’ve seen like, three Disney movies—I got this.”

_“Three?”_

“You can thank Sam for that. Without him, I probably wouldn’t have seen any.”

“Even _I’ve_ seen more than that, and I’m not even from this country,” Wanda quips.

Bucky smiles sweetly. “I’m sure Stevie will get me up to speed.”

Steve groans loudly. “God, I wish you’d never heard that nickname.”

“It’s great, it’s precious.”

_“Fuck oooooff.”_

“Tiny and pissed off.”

“You two are ridiculous.” Wanda rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling a little, and Bucky thinks that might be a good sign. He doesn’t think he’s seen a smile on this girl’s face since he met her.

They visit the small convenience stores on campus. Steve buys family-sized bags of gummy worms, airheads, two chocolate bars, gummy sharks, and great-big bag of variety dum-dums. Bucky’s mouth is wide open as Steve throws these things into his basket, and Steve’s only response is:

“Peggy’s got a sweet tooth.”

Wanda laughs. “If she eats this much candy, it’s a wonder she’s got _any_ teeth.”

“Nah, she’s got a killer smile,” Bucky adds, elbowing Steve gently. “Bet that’s what ya fell for, yeah?”

Steve rolls his eyes but he smiles and looks over at Bucky, watching him thoughtfully. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for a pretty smile.” Bucky could swear that this makes his heart tremble. He smiles and brushes it off with another joke because that’s easiest. He likes to see Steve smiling and laughing because Steve wears happiness better than anyone Bucky knows.

Together, they walk the snacks back to Steve’s dorm, where he stops to get blankets and a sweater. As soon as the sun goes down, so will the temperature, and Steve is smart enough not to let himself freeze to death outside. Steve leaves Wanda and Bucky downstairs together at the front desk together and Bucky already notices the wise-ass, narrow-eyed expression on Wanda’s face.  

“So…”

“You turned my brother into a douche.”

Bucky turns to Wanda, throwing his hands up. “Come on,” he groans, softly with lots of emotion. “He’s not a douche…”

“Isn’t he, though?”

He huffs, letting his hands fall to his sides. “Listen—okay, I know how it looks from the outside. I get it,” Bucky starts. Wanda folds her arms across her chest but he keeps going. “I know it looks like we’re a bunch of douchebag idiots, but like, we’re not? I’ll admit—I met your brother at a party.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“But that’s not why he joined. I don’t know, when I met him it just seemed like…well, it just seemed like he wanted to belong somewhere,” Bucky tells her. “"It's... kinda why I joined. I got moved around a lot, and I didn't really have a family until I was thirteen. So…it’s kind of like that? And I apologize for the hair—that was a rash decision during rush.”

Wanda is still watching Bucky carefully. He watches the lines between her brows start to relax.

“I’m trying very hard to dislike you, and then you go and say something like that.”

Bucky doesn’t know whether or not he should laugh, but he thinks it’s probably safer if he doesn’t.

“Just make sure my brother doesn’t die,” Wanda pauses. “And be nicer to Steve, while you’re at it. Last time, you weren’t very kind.”

Bucky doesn’t have to think very hard to remember what Wanda’s talking about. The day at the Union—Bid Day—when he’d run into Steve and Wanda at a table and pretty much acted like an ass, just because his brothers were around. It hadn’t been because of Steve, or because of what they’d think if they saw Bucky talking to him—no, it’d been about Bucky, and how much he didn’t trust himself to refrain from acting like he was into Steve, because he’s _so_ into him. He’s never been very good at keeping his good feelings in check.

“You’re not wrong.”

Wanda shrugs. Bucky decides that the women Steve keeps company with are all terrifying.

“All you fraternity boys are so strange.”

“I’m sure I can convince your brother to dye his hair back.”

When Steve comes back downstairs, Wanda resumes the silent treatment, but at least she’s not glaring at Bucky anymore.

They walk to the North side of campus, which is the newest part of campus. The movies will be projected from the music building, a strange new addition to campus—from above, it’s supposed to be shaped like a grand piano, but from the ground it just looks like an oddly shaped blob. Students are scattered across the lawn, alone or in small groups, some on blankets, some in lawn chairs, and some barefoot in the grass.  

Steve spots Peggy immediately and Bucky follows him and Wanda over to her. Steve introduces Wanda and Peggy, apparently because the two have yet to meet. Peggy sees Bucky and she walks right up to him and hugs him, saying _‘It’s good to see you again’_ and Bucky freezes up a little, awkwardly patting her on the back. He’s just not used to people hugging him.

“I brought drinks!” Peggy announces, opening her backpack and pulling out cold cans of coke. “And popcorn!”

“I’ve got your bag full a’ cavities,” Steve teases, tossing Peggy the bag of candy, which she catches effortlessly.

Bucky watches Steve begin to carefully spread two wide, blue blankets out on the grass. He does the first on his own, but Bucky goes to help him with the second. He walks around to the other side and takes the edge of the cotton blanket; they pull it straight in unison. Steve looks up at Bucky and smiles a little.

“Thanks,” he says. “We can sit on this one, if you want to?”

Bucky nods silently and sits on the left, while Steve falls in beside him, on the right. Peggy and Wanda sit together on the other blanket, with Peggy closest to Steve. She tears open a bag of gummy worms and digs in.

“They’ll be playing _Mulan_ first, I believe,” Peggy says, pausing with three gummy worms in her hand. “It’s a personal favorite.”

“I’ve seen that one,” Bucky proudly tells Steve.

Steve smiles but his smile is almost pitying. “Which movies have you _actually_ seen?” he quietly asks.

Bucky counts on his fingers. “Okay, so I’ve seen _Hercules_ , _Mulan,_ and those two _Lion King_ movies but, Sam never let me watch the third one because apparently it was really bad?”

“It was,” Steve confirms, waving his hand dismissively. “You can’t go on living like this.”

“I don’t think I missed much.”

 _“Bucky,”_ Steve touches his arm for emphasis and Bucky goes rigid. One touch from this kid makes his skin feel tingly all over—Bucky is honestly in the business of denying feelings, but Steve is making it very difficult by simply... existing. “We’re gonna fix this. I brought like, a whole box of Disney movies with me when I moved in.”

_“Why?”_

“For moments like these, when some poor sap admits to me that he hasn’t even seen _Aladdin_ which, by the way, is going to be the first movie we watch.”

“Oh, so it’s like that?” Bucky laughs.

“I’m doing you a favor. We have like, ‘til Tuesday to get you caught up with the last century of Disney films.”

“I’ll bring the popcorn, I guess.”

When the movie starts, the four of them end up lying down on their stomachs. They pass around the sugary snacks and drinks. Bucky knows he’ll regret eating all of this later, but for now, he enjoys the taste of the foods that remind him of all the good parts of his childhood. Sam has a hell of a sweet tooth too, so every night after dinner, he would break open the candy jar in the kitchen and share his treats with Bucky. With his biological parents, Bucky never got candy—it was the one healthy decision they ever made for their children. But the Wilsons _loved_ sweets, so Bucky learned to love them too.

He pops a gummy shark into his mouth and savors the flavor.

As the film goes on, all of Bucky’s childhood nostalgia rolls in—he finds himself laughing at all the silly jokes, clutching his own hands at the tense moments, and even singing along to the songs— _especially_ singing along to the songs. Peggy is on the other side of Steve and she’s singing along too, with great passion and fervor and with two dum-dums in her hand, and Bucky is starting to realize that he really, really likes this girl. He can see why Steve would fall for someone like her. He wonders why they broke up, but that’s not a question he thinks he’ll ever ask.

Steve ends up sharing the bag of popcorn with Bucky, while Peggy and Wanda share most—if not all—of the candy. Bucky’s fingers brush against Steve’s as he reaches into the bag and he tells himself that he absolutely does not want to hold Steve’s hand. He has to tell himself about five times before he starts believing it. But he finds himself inching toward Steve on the blanket, until their shoulders are touching.

He doesn’t miss it when, a few seconds later, Steve’s left hand softly grazes the skin of Bucky’s arm. For a minute, Bucky feels his nerves start to twinge, feels the anxiety rising in his chest, but he looks around and realizes that no one’s even remotely paying attention to them. Peggy and Wanda are far too into the movie, and all of the other people on the lawn are too far to even see them. Bucky takes a deep breath and glances over at Steve, who looks just as nervous as Bucky feels.

“Is this not okay?” Steve whispers, starting to pull his hand away. “Sorry, I thought—”

Without thinking, Bucky rests his hand on Steve’s, keeping it in place. Steve smiles almost hesitantly, and he ducks his head, averting Bucky’s eyes.

“Okay.” Steve speaks softly. Bucky doesn’t respond because his heart is racing, and he doesn’t trust himself to say the right thing. They stay like this for the rest of the movie, and when the sun finally sets and the second movie starts playing, Bucky dares to hold Steve’s hand.

Through the whole movie, Bucky is afraid his heart might beat its way out of his chest. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this—anxious and giddy, like an overexcited child. He can’t remember the last time he felt excited about holding someone’s _hand._

And when the movie ends, when Steve releases Bucky’s hand to clap for the movie, Bucky almost feels _sad_. Bucky grabs the bag of popcorn—he’s not sure why he does that—and sits straight up on the blanket. Beside Steve, Peggy is clapping, and Wanda is stretching and yawning beside her. The people on the lawn start cleaning up their blankets, chairs, and food, and their group does the same. Bucky leaves the area to throw out all the trash just to get a few seconds to himself to breathe and re-calibrate his brain. When he walks back over, Steve and Peggy are chatting while Wanda folds up one of the blankets. Bucky, not wanting to interrupt, folds the second blanket quietly to the side.

Before he knows it, Peggy is waving goodbye and so is Wanda, both girls walking in opposite directions, leaving Steve and Bucky alone. Bucky looks at Steve while he clutches the blue blanket to his chest.

“So,” Steve starts, clearing his throat. “Sam is gone, you know, so if you wanted to come over we could like, get started on that Disney movie marathon?” He laughs, albeit nervously.

Bucky doesn’t realize how tightly he’s gripping the blanket until he feels the fabric catching under his nails. He tries to think of the best reason to tell Steve _no_ , but he can’t come up with a single one, because he doesn’t actually want to do that. He doesn’t want to say no at all.

Flashing a smile, Bucky shrugs, putting on an air of nonchalance. “Yeah, let’s go pretend like we’re twelve again,” he jokes.

Rolling his eyes, Steve slings the other blanket over his shoulder. “You’re such a jerk,” he laughs. “I’ll order something.”

“Can it be something green? I just ate my weight in gummy sharks and popcorn. I need something green and vegetable-y in my body.”

**___________________________________________________**

They settle on ordering pitas, which is about as healthy as college town delivery gets. Steve pays for the food, and Bucky eats while Steve climbs into his closet and searches through his box of Disney DVDs.

“We’re watching _Aladdin_ ,” Steve announces, waving the DVD in the air.

“Oh, Sam really likes that one. It’s the one with the blue dude, right?”

“This is so sad.”

“Don’t be a punk, alright—I had a pretty shitty childhood and I missed all the good movies.” Bucky laughs. Steve recognizes that there may be some unfortunate truth behind that statement, but Bucky laughs it off, and so he does too.

Steve climbs out of the closet and walks over to the television, turning on the power and setting up the DVD player.

“Get ready to have your mind blown.”

“Oh man, beyond ready. So pumped. Can barely sit still.”

Steve catches himself laughing again. “Can you stop being an ass for like, five minutes?”

“That’s a tall order, buddy. But I mean, since you bought me food, I guess I can be nice.”

Steve sighs—still grinning—and shakes his head as he inserts the DVD into the player. After a few seconds, the TV comes to life.

“Lights on or off?” Steve asks, after kicking open the mini-fridge and taking out two bottles of water.

Bucky takes the water that Steve hands to him. “Off,” he answers. “It adds to the _experience_.” He waggles his eyebrows for emphasis and Steve scoffs, pretending to be annoyed even though it’s probably one of the cutest things that Bucky’s done all day—and boy, has he done some noteworthy cute things.

Steve shuts off the lights and sits down beside Bucky on the futon, finally able to enjoy his food, even though Bucky’s already halfway through his. They scarf down their food as the movie begins to play.

A familiar, child-like giddiness comes over Steve as he watches the movie—an innocent delight overtakes him. He remembers gushing over these movies with his dad when he was a kid, getting excited and telling his dad that he wanted to be a Disney artist when he grew up. His dad—like the giant kid he was—would geek out over the animations, explaining everything to Steve. It was their thing—it was how they bonded. If Steve were to rank the things he missed, he would definitely put this in the top ten. Then again, he misses too many things about his father to ever fit them into a neat, tidy list.

Settling into the futon, Steve glances up at Bucky ever so often, just to make sure that he at least _looks_ interested, and Steve is not disappointed. He sees his own glee reflected in Bucky’s eyes and it sends Steve’s heart soaring. He lowers his shoulders, relaxing just a little bit more.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t last very long.

Moments later, Bucky’s stretching. His massive arms are spread across the top of the futon, and behind Steve’s shoulders. Steve’s body tenses again, because all he can think about is Bucky’s arms slowly curling around him. It’s something that he wants—something that he knows he _shouldn’t_ want at all.  However, as time passes, Bucky’s arm slides farther down the cushion, and finally rests against Steve’s shoulders and neck. Bucky must’ve noticed Steve’s tension, because he clears his throat and inches away just the slightest.

“Sorry—is this weird? I mean, I don’t want you to think I’m trying to…you know?”

No. Steve doesn’t know at all.

“It’s not weird,” Steve quickly answers. “I—you—are you comfortable?”

Bucky hesitates for a moment. He stares at the TV screen, avoiding Steve’s gaze.

“Uh, yeah…are you?”

“Yes,” Steve answers. He takes a deep breath and pulls forth all the nerve and courage that his mother ever instilled in him. “This is nice. I like it—I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s okay, I swear,” Bucky sighs, shaking his head as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m the one making this weird. Help me stop.”

Steve laughs a little, closing his eyes as he ducks his head. He can literally _hear_ the gears turning in Bucky’s head. He’s nervous, but at least he’s better at hiding it.

“I think you’re thinking too hard?”

“Understatement of the year.”

“You want this to be easier?”

“Please.”

“Stop thinking. Just…stop thinking.”

“You’re asking for a lot, pal.”

 _Courage,_ Steve tells himself. _Think courage._

He pulls his legs up onto the futon and moves close enough to Bucky so that they can’t _not_ touch. He rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder and takes a deep breath, inhaling the rich, woodsy scent of his cologne.

“Just stop thinking,” Steve repeats.

Bucky swallows hard, and Steve’s so close to his throat that he can hear it.

“Okay.”

They don’t talk for the rest of the movie, but eventually, Bucky’s arm does curl around Steve’s shoulders, and he does rest his chin against Steve’s hair. And Steve thinks, _this is more than enough_. Bucky isn’t tense, he’s still smiling, and he’s still _there_. It’s more than enough, more than he ever would have asked for. So when Bucky dozes off, with his arm still wrapped securely around Steve, it’s more like a dream come true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dumb boys having feelings comment if you agree


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all the overwhelming queer feelings.

At 3:50am, Bucky’s phone sounds off, screeching sirens ricocheting off the walls. His phone violently vibrates on the futon, buzzing furiously. Bucky jerks awake, blinking rapidly, rubbing the space between his eyes with his knuckles.

“…what the hell _is_ that?” Steve groans against him.

Steve.

Steve is lying _against him_ , with his head on Bucky’s shoulder, sleepily rubbing his eyes.

Admittedly, Bucky panics.

“I…oh my god,” he moans. “I did _not_ mean to fall asleep here—shit, _shit_ —I’m gonna be late.”

“Late?” Steve grumbles. He checks the time on his own phone and grimaces. “It’s almost four in the morning; what are you gonna be _late_ for?”

“Work.”

Steve sits up and Bucky takes the opening—he jumps up from the couch and smooths down his shirt, inhaling deeply and trying to shake off his drowsiness. His heart is like a hummingbird in his chest, flitting around wildly. He’s not sure if this is because of his anxiety, because his alarm startled him awake, or because he virtually spent the night in Steve’s dorm.

Arguably, it’s probably all of the above.

“I’m sorry,” Steve tells Bucky. “If I knew you had to work, I would’ve woken you up or like, not asked you to hang out so late or—”

“Dude, it’s fine,” Bucky waves him off. “I picked up extra shifts since I didn’t go home for break. It’s my fault,” he groans softly, raking his fingers through his hair. “I’m really sorry, my shift is at four—I gotta run.”

“Yeah, no, it’s cool.” Steve stands up from the futon, still rubbing his eyes, all red-faced and puffy-cheeked. He looks damn adorable and Bucky uses all the self-restraint he has not to tell him that.

Steve shuffles over to the door and pulls it open. Bucky starts to walk out, but before he does, he stops and turns to Steve, who’s holding the door open with his foot and almost asleep standing up.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep on the movie,” Bucky blurts out. “I had fun, though. I really did.”

“I had fun too,” Steve sighs, looking up with a tired smile. That sleepy grin is the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

Without thinking, Bucky reaches out and grasps Steve’s shoulder. Before he gets too nervous, before he gets in his own way, Bucky gently guides Steve into a loose embrace. He feels Steve’s sharp intake of breath against his chest. He wraps one arm around Steve’s waist and Bucky nearly melts when Steve laces his fingers at the small of his back. He’s half a head taller than Steve, so he gingerly rests his cheek against Steve’s hair, inhaling his scent, reminiscent of crisp apples and sweet fruits. For Bucky, this moment is both beautiful and terrifying, because he can’t remember the last time he got to hold someone like this, if it ever happened. And the feeling of Steve in his arms sets fire to his nerves—his mind screams for him to stop, to hide, to pretend he doesn’t like this or want this, but he can’t be assed to listen this time. Just this once.

Bucky is aching to stay, aching to hold Steve like this for just a little longer, but he knows that if he doesn’t leave now, he ultimately will be late for work, and in a world of trouble. Bucky sighs again and gives Steve one last squeeze before reluctantly releasing him.

Steve yawns, and Bucky smiles before ruffling his hair.

“Get some sleep,” he says. “I’ll text you later.”

“Okay,” Steve nods, smiling too. “If you don’t, I’ll assume I scared you away.”

Bucky laughs, shaking his head. “Not likely.”

When the door closes and Bucky leaves, walking down the silent hallway, every step feels like regret.

He sprints back to his dorm because it’s so late that the shuttles aren’t running anymore, and his dorm is at _least_ a ten-minute walk from Steve’s.

When he finally arrives at the front desk, Thor is waiting patiently; when he sees Bucky, a wide grin spreads across his face.

“James!” Thor greets him excitedly.

Bucky rushes behind the desk and swipes his ID to clock in. “I’m sorry—I know I’m late.”

“It is not a problem, my friend,” Thor grins. “I must ask—what is it that brings you in so late?”

“Uh,” Bucky begins, scratching his head. “I—I fell asleep at a friend’s dorm. We were watching a movie and I just passed out...” Before Thor can ask any more questions, Bucky starts again. “Do you mind waiting here for like, two minutes while I run upstairs and grab my stuff?”

“Of course not—take as much time as you need.”

Quickly, Bucky rushes up to his dorm. Thankfully, Bruce has gone home for break so Bucky doesn’t have to try to be quiet as he fumbles around his room. He shoves his laptop and O-Chem textbook and notebook into his backpack. He then goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth, wash his face, and make himself acceptable for customer service work. After a solid five minutes, he returns to the front desk. Thor slowly gathers his things as Bucky brings his own behind the desk.

“Why haven’t you gone home with your brother for Fall Break?”

Bucky shrugs. “Lots of the staff wanted to go home for break and were givin’ up shifts, so I picked a lot of ‘em up,” he tells Thor, yawning. “It’s not so bad.”

Thor frowns. “You must miss your family—you spent your entire summer here, as I remember?”

“Yeah,” Bucky answers. “Summer job. Saving up money—it’s cool, man, I’m going home for Thanksgiving.” He tries to laugh off the edge, but he starts feeling guilty all over again. “Anyway, man—thanks again for waitin’ so long.”

Thor tells Bucky that he need not thank him and gives Bucky a rough-but-friendly pat on the back as he leaves. Once he’s gone, Bucky settles into the chair at the desk and spreads his materials across the desk. He tries his best to snap himself awake so that he can concentrate on reading his O-Chem textbook—next week, he’s got a full week of lab work, and he can’t afford to mess that up again.

In between reading and taking notes, Bucky has to check in a few residents, all of whom are drunk, but not drunk enough to have an ambulance called. At least three of the girls try flirting with him and one of the guys even asks for his number. Bucky just laughs it off, smiles, and tells them all to stay safe and sleep well.

The hours between four and eight in the morning are the most boring, uneventful hours to work at the front desk. They are also the best hours for homework… and the worst hours to be awake. Bucky fights through his own exhaustion— he puts on his headphones and listens to his “Stay Awake” playlist, which involves lots of Kesha songs, which he has never shared with anyone, ever. He listens to music until eight o’clock, when he takes his headphones out because people might _actually_ be coming into the dorm now.

 _Four hours down_ , he tells himself, groaning internally.

Still, the lobby remains relatively empty. Everyone has gone home for break so the usual traffic has died down to maybe one or two people every hour. Which is absolutely _boring_.

At nine, Bucky starts to crash. His breathing slows; it feels like there are weights attached to his eyelids. All the pinching and cheek slapping in the world won’t help him.

His phone dings, snapping him to temporary attention. When he sees that it’s Steve, _that_ actually wakes him up. Bucky answers the message immediately.

_Pixie Stick_

_(9:03) So I never actually got back to sleep._   
_(9:03) shit man im so sorry im an idiot i shldve just gone home ugh_   
_(9:04) It’s okay! I got some drawing done so it’s good. Are you still at work?_   
_(9:04) yea im here til 12 its awful idk why i thought this wld b a good idea_

Steve doesn’t respond after that, which makes Bucky feel the tiniest twinge of disappointment, but he won’t admit to it. He busies himself with his coursework, buries his nose in the textbook, and tries to figure out how he’s going to stay awake for the next three hours.

At least twenty minutes of silence in the lobby pass. When the lobby doors slide open, Bucky doesn’t even bother looking up from his textbook. However, when someone comes and stops at the front desk, he sighs and greets them before lifting his head.

“How can I help—oh my god, what are you doing here?”

Steve smiles down at Bucky, raising up two huge cups of coffee. He’s wearing glasses and has noticeable bags under his eyes, and Bucky realizes that this kid _really_ didn’t sleep.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” Steve jokes. He passes one of the cups to Bucky, who graciously receives it. “I had them put ice cubes in it so it’d be cool by the time I got here.”

Eyes closed, Bucky takes the first sip from the cup, and once the smooth, warm liquid reaches his throat, he moans in delight. He holds the cup with both hands, inhaling the strong scent.

“You have no idea how much I needed this—thank you.”

“Do you always work hours like this?” Steve asks, wearing a concerned expression.

Bucky shrugs. “Yeah? I mean—usually it’s 4-8 shifts during the week. It changes on the weekends.”

“Do you _sleep_ , though?”

“I’m a professional nap-taker.”

_“Bucky.”_

“Chill out, mom—I sleep,” Bucky laughs, but Steve’s eyes are still narrowed. “What? I do!”

“Naps are not _sleeping_.” Steve frowns.

Bucky waves him off. “Listen, this is nothing compared to the summer. Working twenty-ish hours is a hell of a lot easier than working sixty.”

“How did you even manage that?”

“You know, when there’s no one in town, it’s a lot easier to get a job here,” Bucky admits. “Plus, Sam was gone and I wasn’t super active in my chapter during the summer so, y’know—I just worked. It kept me occupied.”

“You need to give yourself a break,” Steve scolds. “Are you going to sleep after this?”

Bucky grins lazily, shrugging again. “Nope—I was hoping we could hang out again, y’know, if you’re not tired of me yet.” He flashes one of his charming smiles, which only results in Steve rolling his eyes as he laughs.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” he says. “Are you sure you don’t need to sleep, seriously?”

“I’m good,” Bucky assures him. “But I _am_ hungry, so like, after I’m done here, do you wanna get lunch or something? I mean, if you’re not busy?”

“Peggy’s got a hair appointment and Wanda sleeps in on Saturdays—I’m not busy. I’d really like that.”

“Great—we can even go somewhere off campus. I’ve got my car up here,” Bucky pauses and a lightbulb goes off in his head. He takes a deep breath and clears his throat, but doesn’t look Steve in the eye when he speaks. “Bring some swim trunks or something.”

“For?”

“Something really fun, alright.” Steve raises a suspicious eyebrow and Bucky rolls his eyes. “Just trust me.”

“Uh-huh,” Steve says. “Finish your coffee and try not to die.”

“It’s a daily effort, buddy,” Bucky jokes. “I’ll come pick you up around one?”

Steve leaves, and Bucky wishes he hadn’t. He misses him as soon as he walks out the door. But he ignores that tug of emotion and turns back to his work after drinking half of the cup of coffee in about four solid gulps. Its taste and heat is almost revitalizing. It keeps him going until the last hour of his shift.

When noon comes, and the next desk clerk arrives, Bucky bolts up to his room to put all his things away and shower. After he’s cleaned up, he pulls his hair up into a bun, throws on a white cut-off and a pair of cargo shorts, and packs a small bag with two towels, sunscreen, and a water bottle. He throws on a pair of old sunglasses and then he leaves, heading out to the student parking lot to pick up his car.

It’s a fifteen-minute walk to the lot and Bucky spends the whole time rehearsing what he wants to say to Steve when he picks him up. Bucky’s car, a 1995 Honda, is pretty much a metal deathtrap. He has to warn every single person before they get in. He tells himself to relax, or at least _pretend_ like he’s relaxed, but that proves to be very difficult.

As soon as he gets to Steve, his whole speech falls apart.

“My car is dumb,” Bucky spits out.

Steve is visibly confused. “What?”

“The air conditioner doesn’t work,” Bucky tells him. “You can’t move your seat back, or it’ll go flat. The seatbelts in the back are like…nonexistent—blame my brothers. Sometimes the trunk pops open—it’s dumb.”

“Am I gonna die in here?”

“I mean it’s possible, but no one’s died yet, so I think you’re good.”

“Why are you still driving this?”

“It’s my first car, alright? She’s my baby. I love Winona.”

“You named your car _Winona_?”

“Yes, and she’s perfect—well, she was.”

“What year is this thing?”

“1995—stop judging her. She’s fragile!”

Steve straps on his seatbelt. “If I die, Nat will avenge me.”

“I’m sure all your friends would avenge you—I’ll try my best not to kill you, calm down.”

Bucky starts driving and Steve makes a couple more wiseass comments about his car, so Bucky makes sure to pull some hard stops on their way downtown. After the first three, Steve starts to catch on, and he punches Bucky in the arm the next time he does it, which only garners a hearty laugh on Bucky’s part.

When they get downtown, Bucky parks on the street and they hop out of the car. He leads Steve down the street and points out the restaurant.

“Okay, so this place— _this_ place has the best sandwiches in the world.”

“You’ve traveled the world and researched this?”

“Stop being such a smartass and _listen_ ,” Bucky grins, elbowing Steve in his side. “You can get anything you want—seriously, they have like every meat, every cheese, every bread—any sauce you want.”

“So, it’s like Potbelly—”

“Dude, fuck Potbelly. This place is sandwich heaven.”

“It’s called _Subtopia_ ; at least that’s creative.”

“Steve, you’re terrible. You really are.”

They walk in together and Bucky has to pinch Steve to get him to stop his smart-alecky side comments. Bucky grabs a menu from the front counter and tosses it to Steve, who nearly drops it. After looking at the menu for a good five minutes, Steve looks up and says, “I want a BLT.”

“All the choices in the world and you choose the most boring sandwich?”

“It’s what I like.”

“You’re like a 90-year old who’s stuck in his ways.”

“That’s… not the first time I’ve heard that.”

“Ugh—find a table. I’ll order your basic ass sandwich.”

Steve walks away laughing and Bucky turns toward the counter, not even trying to hide his smile. He orders their food and drinks and waits at the front until they’re ready. Once he has everything, he brings it back to the table where Steve is texting furiously.

“Typing a book, there?” Bucky teases, setting their tray of food down on the round, wooden table.

Steve visibly turns red at that comment. “No, I’m texting Clint I—I had to tell him something. Not important.” He shakes his head. “What’d you get?”

“A turkey club—hold on, hold on—I see you about to talk shit. It’s on an asiago cheese bagel, with baby spinach and chipotle ranch, alright, it’s not basic, it’s good.”

“That sounds pretentious.”

Bucky can’t hold back his laughter. He picks up his sandwich and dramatically narrows his eyes at Steve. “You really wanna fight me today.”

“I always wanna fight you,” Steve jokes. “You ooze frat boy—it’s like, how can I not want to?”

“I think you’ve been hanging out with Sam too much. He’s got into your head and now you’re all anti-Greek. And that Wanda’s no good for you either.” He wags his finger at Steve, who laughs again.

“You found me out.” Steve picks up his sandwich, taking a quick bite before he continues. “Wow, you were right. This is really good.”

Bucky grins proudly, biting into his own sandwich. “Freshman year, Sam and I used to come here like, every other day. Our folks were always so mad because we never _ever_ had any money in our bank accounts but like, our meal-plans were always full.”

Steve laughs. “My Ma was sort of like that too. She banned me from going to Coney Island for a whole month because I spent every dime I had there. I mean, I’ll admit I spent most of it on Peggy, trying to win stuffed animals, but I’d never tell my Ma that.”

“A real romantic, this guy.”

“What can I say? I was trying to impress.”

“I’m sure you had no trouble impressing all the guys and gals back home.”

Steve scoffs, shaking his head as he eats. “Please—it was wild enough that Peggy dated me. Trust me, nobody in all of Brooklyn wanted to talk to the skinny asthmatic kid.” He shrugs. “I mean, there were guys here and there, but like, it wasn’t ever anything serious, so.”

“I don’t believe _that_ for a second.”

He catches Steve smiling, even though Steve quickly lowers his head to bite his sandwich.

“Yeah, well—take it up with the population of my hometown.”

“But you said,” Bucky begins, lowering his voice just the slightest bit. “Well, you told me before that there were like…other guys, or whatever.”

Steve finally sets his sandwich down. He chews slowly, staring downward thoughtfully.

“I mean, yeah, but it was never like…” Steve shrugs, huffing softly. “So, before Peggy and I dated, there was this guy. He was a senior when I was a freshman, so…well, my Ma didn’t approve at all.”

“He met your _mother_?”

“I thought it was going somewhere—I was wrong,” Steve shakes his head, staring off as he reminisces. “So we were never like, officially dating. But he was around for a while. He was my first…for a lot of stuff, but y’know towards the end of his senior year he kind of just backed off.”

Bucky looks at Steve in disbelief. “What a dick.”

At Bucky’s immediate response, Steve laughs. “I should’ve known better, but I was so head-over-heels that I guess I suspended my good judgment. I don’t make the best decisions when my emotions get the better of me.”

With that, Bucky can sympathize.

“And then you got with Peggy, and everythin’ was sunshine and rainbows.”

Steve barks out a laugh. “There were a couple of flings in-between but yeah, then Peggy. First and only girlfriend. To this day, I can never understand what she saw in me.”

“I can,” Bucky tells him. His heart is hammering in his chest but he manages keep steady enough to finish his sentence. “You’re…good. And you’re kind, and you care—you listen, y’know? And yeah, you’re definitely a little shit sometimes but like, it fits you.” When Bucky notices that Steve is looking over at him in nothing short of awe, he clams up. He fights away the warm blush crawling up his neck and laughs it off. “Whatever, man—you’re great.”

Steve smiles and thanks him quietly, and Bucky wishes that he had the courage to say more, the courage to say everything that he was thinking. Since the first day he really talked to Steve, he has been nothing but kind to Bucky. Even when Bucky came out to him, he didn’t make a big deal about it—he did his best to make Bucky feel comfortable and he still does it, every time they’re together. Steve has been understanding, supportive, loyal, and an overall amazing friend. How could Steve not see these things in himself? How could he not know how good of a person he is? Any person who’s gotten a chance to know this kid should consider themselves lucky, Bucky thinks.

Nevertheless, Bucky doesn’t know if he’ll ever have the courage to say all of that.

**________________________________________________________**

“So, where exactly are we going?” Steve asks, climbing back into Bucky’s car.

Bucky grins while he snaps in his seat belt. “You don’t like surprises, do you?”

“How’d you guess?” Steve quips, mimicking jazz hands in the air.

As he starts the car, Bucky rolls his eyes. “You’re such a brat—just let me do this, alright? _Please_ —look, I’m even saying please.” He bats his eyes dramatically to emphasize his point and Steve smiles, even though he has to look away from him for a moment to collect himself.

The car roars to life. Steve rolls down his window to let in some fresh air. It doesn’t do much to cool him off, but a humid breeze is better than no breeze at all. Bucky turns on the radio and a jumpy pop song comes on. Steve doesn’t recognize it, but Bucky does and he turns it up to an obnoxious level.

“How do you listen to this stuff?” Steve yells over the music.

“Come on, man—it’s fun. It’s not like, the best song in the world, but it’s fun—why do you hate fun?”

Steve tries to think of a smartass comment but when Bucky starts dancing and singing along to the song, he can’t think through his laughter. The juxtaposition of a frat boy in a cut-off singing along to Kesha is just too much for Steve to handle. Halfway through the song, Bucky takes Steve’s hand into his and forces him to fist-pump along with the music. Steve just lets him because he’s laughing too hard to care. But when the song ends, Bucky is still holding his hand. Steve gets the same fluttery feeling in his stomach when he realizes this and he makes it a point not to let go. He tries his luck; he slowly tucks his fingers in-between Bucky’s, lacing them together. Steve can’t bring himself to look Bucky in the eye, but when he feels Bucky gently tightening his grip, he knows that things are still okay.

His pulse quickens; he leans against the car door, resting his elbow against it. Steve closes his eyes and wishes he could hide his own smile but that’s impossible, and he knows it. Silently, he wishes he could hold Bucky’s hand every single day, just like this, but he knows that isn’t realistic. Steve isn’t sure what’s going on between them, and he’s too scared to ask because he’s fully aware of Bucky’s situation; there’s some kind of chemistry, he can _feel_ that much, but he knows he can’t ask Bucky what comes after this. For now, Steve is content with quietly holding hands while they drive.

They pull up to a large, gated area. Steve can’t see what’s beyond the fence, but he hears music, chatter, and…splashing? Someone waves Bucky’s car forward and he pulls up slowly. Gravel crunches underneath the tires, jostling the vehicle; Steve pokes his head out of the window to get a better view. He sees what looks to be sand, but can’t be sand because there are no beaches where they’re at. Suddenly, it’s there—a huge, massive pit filled with water, surrounded by people. Some are diving in, some playing volleyball beside the water, and some are just sun-bathing on the edge.

“This is the city quarry.”

“Hold on—what?”

“Alright,” Bucky begins, pulling into the parking lot that’s at least three-hundred yards from the water. “It’s like this weird, accidental natural spring? Back in the day they used to mine here—I can’t remember what for, I heard the story during my freshman year—but they dug so deep that one day, it just started filling with water so, y’know here it is.”

“This is weird…but like, pretty cool.”

Bucky parks the car and shuts it off before quickly climbing out. Steve follows suit, but then immediately realizes that he is under-prepared.

“I didn’t bring a towel,” he admits. “I mean, I should’ve thought ‘towel’ when you told me to bring swim trunks.”

“I got it covered,” Bucky replies, opening his backpack to reveal two blue towels. “I also brought sunscreen because you’re pasty and I am not getting blamed if you burn.”

“It was thoughtful until you had to be a jerk about it, you know.”

Bucky yanks out the towel only to throw it at Steve’s head. “Whatever, punk—you’re lucky I care.”

“So lucky.”

They walk towards the water and Bucky picks a spot for them to sit down. It’s away from all of the people who are racing around with water balloons and water-guns, kicking up the fine gravel. Bucky lays down one of the towels and sits cross legged as he begins rummaging through his bag. He pulls out a yellow tube of sunscreen and points at the towel.

“Have a seat—try not to be stubborn about it.” He jokes. Steve plops down beside him and Bucky draws a circle with his pointer finger, motioning for Steve to turn around. He does, and when he hears the sunscreen cap go _‘pop’_ , he forgets to brace himself.

“Ah! _Cold._ Jesus.”

“Suck it up.” Bucky mumbles; Steve can almost hear him smiling as he slathers the freezing cold cream across his back and shoulders. He really is thankful that Bucky thought of this, because after spending the day under the Sun’s relentless rays, Steve would’ve looked like an overcooked lobster.

He tries not to think about the fact that Bucky’s hands are on his bare skin, rubbing all over him. He _tries_. But the fact that he’s barely been touched by another human since he was eighteen years old is not helping. And the fact that the person who’s presently touching him happens to be the guy he’s pining for doesn’t help either. He’s thankful when it’s over. Kind of.

Steve spins around and asks Bucky if he needs help. Bucky starts to say yes but stops abruptly, eyeing Steve’s chest. Immediately, Steve knows what Bucky’s looking at.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky looks up immediately. “I didn’t mean to stare—that was rude.”

“It’s alright,” Steve assures him. “I guess I never told you about that.”

“Can I ask what happened?”

Steve nods. “Yeah…to make a really long story short, I had a heart replacement last winter.”

Bucky’s eyes widen in surprise. “Woah—seriously?”

“Mhm-hm,” Steve answers. “Had a bad heart since I was born. Things went south and I had to get a transplant or, well…yeah.”

“Shit, man—that’s like…I don’t even know what to say—I’m glad you found a donor?”

Smiling faintly, Steve nods. “Yeah, me too.”

“Now you’ve got these cool ass battle scars, dude.”

“Battle scars?” Steve chuckles. “That makes it sound way more interesting than it actually is.”

“You grappled with death, man—that’s cool. Admit it.”

Steve’s smile widens. “Well, if you put it like that.”

Bucky doesn’t ask any more questions about the transplant. Steve is thankful that Bucky’s not one of those people who needs a complete rundown of his medical history, just to grasp the fact that his heart stopped working and he needed a new one.

After applying sunscreen, they head for the water. The sand-like gravel feels gritty underneath Steve’s feet. Upon reaching the water, Steve is happy to find that it’s not freezing cold; it’s just warm enough that he doesn’t start shivering when he gets in. They walk to the deeper end and Steve dips his head underwater for a few seconds, coming back up with ears full of water. But as soon as he comes up, Bucky’s hand is on top of his head, pushing him back down.

Steve curses and flails underwater until Bucky, laughing heartily, lets him back up.

“Jerk!” Steve shouts, splashing Bucky directly in the face. He wasn’t ready for it and it hits him square in the eyes, sending him stumbling backward into the water. “You’re the worst!”

In response to that, Bucky splashes Steve and tries to push him under the water again. They go back and forth, splashing one another, swimming back and forth trying to escape, and wrestling each other to try to get the other’s head underwater. Steve can’t remember the last time he was in this much water, having this much fun—it was definitely before his surgery, way before he got sick. Now, he can add this to the list of fun things he’s done since he’s gotten better—it’s a short list, but this is definitely at the top.

After a while, Steve gets winded and his muscles get tired. He swims to one of the two floating docks in the water and Bucky follows behind him. Steve scrambles up onto the dock and plops down with a wet _splat_ , shaking the water out of his ears. Bucky comes up from the water, throwing his hair back out of his eyes before he smooths it down. Steve has to look away from him then, because the way the water is running down his face and chest is just absolutely tempting, and Steve’s trying his best not to go there today. Bucky hoists himself up and lays down beside Steve on the damp wood.

Steve lets his feet dangle in the water. Beside him, he hears Bucky breathing heavily. He closes his eyes, letting the sun’s warmth spread over his skin.

“This is nice,” Steve says, sighing contentedly. “I’m glad we came out here. I haven’t been swimming in forever.”

“I don’t know what made me think of this place, but I’m glad I did. I used to come here with Sam all the time, freshman year. Last year I came a few times but, y’know—last year wasn’t awesome, so.”

“Well, you can have fun now,” Steve assures him. He opens his eyes to glance over at Bucky, who’s already looking right at him, and smiles. “We can have fun.”

Bucky’s smile is brilliant, rivaling the sun. He kicks up some water that splashes Steve’s chest. Steve frowns at him. “I always have fun with you,” he laughs. “ _God,_ it feels like summer.”

“I wish it was still summer—I don’t want to go back to class on Wednesday,” Steve gripes. To him, this fall break is useless; it only leaves them wanting more, when four days is just not enough. “There’s only two days left!”

“We’ll have to make the best of it then, huh?”

Turning to Bucky again, Steve raises a curious eyebrow. “Are you trying to monopolize my time for the next two days?”

Bucky smirks and kicks more water at Steve. “Maybe.”

“Jackass.” Steve mutters under his breath, wiping water off his face.

Bucky chuckles lightly. “You like it.”

Steve wants to say _I like you_ , but he can’t the nerve to do it. Instead, he just lies back, beside Bucky, and stares up into the cloudless blue sky with him as the dock floats across the water.

“Hey, Steve?” Bucky starts, still staring up.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

Steve squints, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Of course.”

Bucky’s quiet for a few seconds and Steve waits patiently for his response. He feels Bucky tapping his foot against the dock.

“So…when did you like, come out?”

Steve remains calm as he starts to speak. “Honestly? It was…kind of an accident? It happened when I was really young, in about third grade, and I was going to a Catholic school. And there was this kid—for the life of me, I can’t remember his name—but, he kissed me on the playground during recess, while we were playing hide and seek. At first I was like, this is really weird. But then he kissed me again and I just kissed him back? I didn’t know it wasn’t an okay thing to do—especially not at Catholic school. So the nuns called my parents and made this whole big deal about it. My mom asked me, ‘ _Steven, why were you kissing that boy?’_ and I said, _‘I don’t know I liked it?’_.” Steve laughs, remembering his parent’s confused faces in that moment. “They were really good about it. Pulled me outta catholic school, too. And later, before my dad passed, he gave me a very inclusive sex-talk.”

Bucky laughs beside him, hand on his own chest. “Ah come on, buddy—kissin' boys on the playground?”

“I was _eight_.”

Steve ends up laughing about it himself. He couldn’t have asked for a better reaction from his parents, who immediately started supporting him and trying to be understanding. He knows that it could’ve been much, much worse.

“So,” he begins. “Are you out to your parents, at least?” Steve asks.

Bucky shakes his head. “Nope,” he sighs. “I’m not…like, I’m not scared to tell them? But I just haven’t found the right time. I didn’t tell them about what happened last year. They have no idea about that, and like…I couldn’t tell them while it was happening.”

“I get that.”

“I wanna tell them,” Bucky sighs. “Sam is out. He’s been out since high school, came out right before they adopted me, I think.”

“And they were cool about it?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, they were fine. It took his dad a while to get used to the idea, y’know—the whole, being a pastor with a bisexual son was…it was a lot for him. But it’s better.”

“That’s really good. For the both of you.” Steve looks over at Bucky again, smiling warmly. “I think you can do it—I believe in you.” Bucky finally meets Steve’s eyes. There’s something in his eyes that Steve can’t read, and it makes him feel just the slightest bit faint.

The two of them lie on the dock for a while longer before Bucky suggests that they swim back to the shore to lie out on their towels. Once they get there, they’re soaking wet. Steve immediately lies down on his back and tries to soak up as much of the sun as he can, while Bucky dries his hair off first before lying down.

Once the quarry starts to get a little too crowded, Bucky suggests that they head out. Steve, satisfied with his newfound tan, doesn’t protest. They climb back into Bucky’s car and head back to campus.

“Am I dropping you off or are we still hanging out?”

Steve shrugs. “We can still hang out if you want to.”

“I want to,” Bucky quickly answers. “Your room or mine?”

“Mine has the Disney movies.”

“Yours, then.”

Bucky parks near Steve’s dorm, since parking is open on the weekend. When they get up to Steve’s dorm, Bucky sits on the futon and towels his hair dry.

“You haven’t ever seen _The Little Mermaid_ , have you?”

“Nope.”

“I’m crying inside.”

“Shut up and put the movie in, _Jesus_.”

Steve flips Bucky off before putting the movie in the DVD player. He fetches a bag of pretzels from the top of his closet and throws them into Bucky’s lap. Steve drags a blanket down from his bed and wraps it around his shoulders. His hair is still damp and today of _all_ days, the air conditioning in his dorm is fully functioning.

His shivering must’ve been noticeable, because Bucky turns to him with a confused expression on his face.

“Are you _shivering_?”

“I’m cold.”

“…c’mere.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Huh?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird—you’re making it weird.”

“Just…get over here.”

Steve shuts himself up and gets out of his own way. He slides across the futon, where Bucky is holding out one arm and most definitely not making eye contact. Steve nestles himself under Bucky’s arm, exhaling slowly when Bucky curls that arm around his shoulders, fingertips on Steve’s bare skin. Bucky’s shirt is still damp from the moisture on his skin, and his skin smells like a mixture of his strong-scented cologne and the earthy scent of nature. Steve leans in against him, laying his head on Bucky’s chest and Bucky responds by resting his chin on against Steve’s hair.

This night goes much like the night before; Steve struggles to pay attention to the movie because being near Bucky makes him want to do things that he knows probably won’t ever happen.

When _Kiss the Girl_ starts playing on the screen, Steve sinks a little lower into the futon, trying to ignore the lyrics and pretend they don’t apply to his life.

He can hear Bucky’s heartbeat and it’s running rampant inside his chest. Steve exhales quickly, relieved—at least he’s not the only one who’s anxious.

“Your heart’s beating really fast,” he points out, glancing up at Bucky.

Slowly, Bucky looks down to meet Steve’s gaze. “Yeah, well…I mean…okay, I’m gonna be really honest here—you make me a little nervous.”

“I make _you_ nervous?”

“You just,” Bucky stammers. “You’re just so…and it makes me…” Bucky takes a deep breath as he stares at Steve. “I just—I don’t know.”

Steve looks at Bucky, and takes in all the features of his face. But his eyes land on Bucky’s lips and he feels his stomach start to twist. He licks his own lips, breath growing shallow. Steve glances up at Bucky and finds that Bucky’s eyes are down—he’s watching Steve’s mouth with great intent. That makes Steve feel things in places where he hasn’t felt things in a _long_ time.

Inhaling again, and ready to risk it all, Steve finally speaks.

“I like you,” Steve confesses, shaking his head. “I _really_ like you.”

“I know,” Bucky speaks, chest rising and falling slowly. “I…” Bucky’s voice trails off. Somehow, his hands are in Steve’s hair, cradling the nape of his neck, which sends shivers up and down Steve’s spine. Steve, fear-be-damned, reaches out and takes Bucky’s other hand into his. Bucky closes his eyes but he grips Steve’s hand. “You’re not the only one,” Bucky admits, licking his lips.

He’s still staring at Steve’s mouth, and there’s a hunger in Steve’s stomach that’s making him want to grab Bucky by the face and kiss him until all of the fear is gone. Bucky’s fingers are still buried in the hair at his neck, and Steve isn’t sure if Bucky is pulling him forward or if he’s moving on his own, but they’re closer now and Steve can almost feel Bucky’s breath on his skin.

Bucky closes his eyes and a pained expression flashes across his face. “I…I should go.”

“You don’t have to,” Steve quickly whispers.

“But I should,” Bucky tells him. “Before I do something stupid.”

“Something stupid like what?”

Bucky groans aloud. “Something stupid like…” He shakes his head but then slowly leans back, if only an inch. To Steve, that inch feels like miles. “I should go.” The resolve in his voice is sound and final.

Steve doesn’t push it any further; he nods once and slowly pulls away, releasing Bucky’s hand as he lifts his arm. Bucky stands up from the futon and Steve follows suit, adjusting his shorts for good measure.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, as Bucky gathers his things. “I’m sorry if I was—”

Bucky turns quickly, glancing at Steve. “You don’t have to be sorry.” He tries to smile but he still looks like he’s hurting. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Me either,” Steve answers honestly. He has no idea what he’s doing at all—there’s no logic here, no thinking—his feelings are always raw and out in the open when he’s with Bucky. “I don’t want to make things weird.”

“Things aren’t weird.” Bucky asserts. “I just feel like there are some boundaries here that I probably shouldn’t overstep.”

Steve wants to shout at him and tell him that there are no boundaries at all, that if he would just sit down, they could do this differently. Maybe things could better—maybe they could be easier.

“I’ll text you tomorrow, okay?” Bucky offers. Steve nods and smiles because he hopes it’ll make Bucky feel better, not because he feels like smiling. And when Bucky leaves, Steve spends the rest of his night with his face buried in a pillow, burning with regret, embarrassment, and overwhelming affection for a guy that he can’t have.

**____________________________________________________**

Panicking alone in his car, and full of disappointment, Bucky calls Sam.

It’s nearly five in the evening, and Bucky knows that Sam is probably sitting at the dinner table with their father right now, but he needs someone to talk to before he explodes.

The phone only rings twice before Sam picks up.

“Bucky?”

“Listen—I know you’re probably having dinner with Pops right now but I need you to like, get up from the table and walk away for a second.”

“O-kay?” Over the phone, Bucky can hear the legs of Sam’s chair scraping across the hardwood floors as he leaves the table. Their father grumbles something in the background, but Sam tells him that he’ll be right back. “I’m out on the deck--what happened?”

“I fucked up.”

“What _happened_?”

Bucky takes a deep breath, letting his head fall back against the top of his seat. “Okay, so I know we haven’t talked about this at all, but I’ve...I mean, I kind of have a thing for...this guy.”

“Wow, my obnoxious little brother actually has a crush on someone.” Sam teases. Bucky groans, banging his head against the headrest. “Alright, I’m being serious now, I swear. Tell me what’s up.”

Gearing up again, Bucky exhales quickly. “I’ve been hanging out with him...and maybe flirting with him a lot? I don’t even mean to sometimes—it just happens! I really like this guy, Sam and I think—I think I almost kissed him today, but I freaked and ran out on him.”

“You _ran out_?”

“Okay, I walked out, but still.”

“Oh my god.”

“I called you for help—you’re not helping!”

“Bucky…”

“I know, it’s bad—I know.”

Sam sighs. “Okay, well… I’m having dinner with Pops and he’s giving me _the look_ from the dining room…okay. Jesus. First, answer one question: did you want to kiss him?”

“...yeah.”

“Okay, well tell him sorry and…call me after dinner—Pops is waving me back inside.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

“You need to apologize, Buck. Don’t lead the guy on, you know? If you like him, you like him—that’s _okay_. You don’t have to hide from that. But don’t just—run out on people, you know?”

“I _know_.”

“I love you, bro.”

“Ditto.”

Sam hangs up first. Bucky spends the next two minutes in his car, groaning and banging his head against the steering wheel.

When he goes back to his dorm, he can’t concentrate on anything: not his homework, not a movie, not even the damn documentaries on the Discovery channel that he loves so much. Every tangible thing seems to escape him and be replaced by disappointment, regret, and frustration. He hates the fact that he didn’t kiss Steve—he hates the fact that he _wanted_ to kiss Steve, and he hates _himself_ for feeling guilty about it. The overwhelming, constant shame just eats away at him, burning away every shred of courage he ever owned.

Bucky is ashamed to still be breathing. Steve should hate him—he should. For showing him an open door and simultaneously shutting it in his face; for aching for him, for laying hands on him, for opening his mouth and saying all the right things with a honeyed tongue, for coming _so_ close and then running away. Steve should hate him for that—Steve should hate him for being such a coward.

So, Bucky apologizes. Because it’s the right thing to do. At midnight, hoping Steve is fast asleep, he texts him:

_(12:00) dnt hate me. im sorry im so sorry i wish i wasn’t like this. i wish i could be brave like u. im so sorry, please dnt hate me._

And he prays for no response.

But just like always, Bucky’s prayers go unanswered.

_(12:07) I don’t hate you, Bucky. I couldn’t--ever. I’ll talk to you later though, I’m heading to bed. Sleep well, okay?_

Bucky tries to sleep—he does try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate ALL of the great comments you all leave. Trust me when I say that they fuel the fire.   
> in other news: boys are dumb and they have dumb feelings.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting patiently! Enjoy!

Bucky decides that it would be smart to spend some time away from Steve. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be around him—no, it would never be that—but he just can’t trust himself to refrain from doing something he could potentially regret.

Over and over again, Bucky’s conscience tells him that he’s not ready—he’s not ready to have feelings for Steve, not when he can’t even _admit_ that he has them. Steve said _‘I like you’_ and the only words Bucky could manage were _‘You’re not the only one’_. It’s not enough—it’s never enough. Steve is confident—he’s courageous, he knows exactly who he is, and he’s not afraid to be seen. For Bucky, it’s the opposite—he has no _idea_ who he is. He’s been dancing around the topic of his own identity for _years_ and there’s no way to reign it in, especially not now. Especially when his emotions are so scattered and strewn about.

Everything inside him screams _‘this isn’t right, you’re not right’_ Echoes of his biological father’s voice ring out in his mind, saying _“You’re a man—act like one”_. He feels it in his muscle memory—fingers as strong as steel wrapped around his ribcage, trying to crush him into a mold he could never hope to fit. As much as he tries to forget the past, there are always unpleasant reminders, ones that tell Bucky that he isn’t supposed to want Steve the way that he does. After what he’s been through, how could he trust himself to want the right things? To do the right things?

So, Bucky does what he does best—he retreats. He pulls away. He doesn’t want to treat Steve any differently, but he doesn’t want to hurt him, either. Better to leave him be than to invite him into Bucky’s emotional disarray and identity panic.

He gives Steve bullshit excuses about having to work and needing to rest, when he knows good and well that he won’t sleep. Steve isn’t put off by it, or at least he doesn’t let on that he is. Bucky tries not to worry too much about it. He still texts Steve on and off, still pretends to be whoever it is that he needs to be.

The last days of break are lonelier than Bucky ever thought they’d be—he watches Disney movies on Netflix, alone. But they’re not as good without Steve next to him.

On Tuesday, while working at the front desk, which is still deserted, Bucky gets a text from Sam, who’s yet to return to campus.

_real bro_

_(9:00)_ _GM. Listen. You need to talk to Pops and I’m only telling you this bc he is M O P I N G.  
(9:01) he’s asked about you at least 7 times over break and honestly both of u are stubborn AF actin like the phone don’t work both ways_

Bucky sighs and doesn’t even bother texting Sam back. He knows he’s wrong for not calling—he _knows_. So, before he can start feeling sorry for himself, Bucky dials their father’s number and the phone only rings twice before the old man picks up.

“Well now, if this ain’t a surprise, I don’t know what is,” Paul chuckles lightly on his end of the line.

“Hey, Pops,” Bucky sighs, running his hand along his forehead and down his cheek. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come home—I had to work and all that.”

“Sam told me. It’s alright, son. Missed you here, though,” he tells Bucky, which only serves to inadvertently make him feel guiltier. “You doin’ alright out there?”

“Yeah?”

“That didn’t sound too convincin’,” Paul points out. “Spit it out, kid.”

Bucky closes his eyes, thoughts swimming. He doesn’t want to say the wrong thing, but once he gets going, he can’t stop. “Things with my fraternity are getting really overwhelming. My professors are trying to eat me alive—I’m still trying to pull my grades up from last semester. I’m always working…and, Pops? I…” Bucky stops, shaking his head. “I’m tired. Just really tired.”

On the other line, his father is quiet for several moments.

“Well, son—pace yourself. You got a bad habit of taking on too much and not asking for help, always have,” he points out. “You don’t have to do everything by yourself—let your fraternity brothers pick up some responsibilities. Get a tutor if you need one. Don’t work yourself into the _ground_ , boy—your Mama and I can help you, you know that. We’re still here.”

“I know.”

“And I know—I know you’re tired, James. But you’ve got this. You’re strong—we raised you that way.”

Bucky hangs his head and smiles softly, nodding to himself. “You’re right,” he says. Suddenly, he notices two residents making their way toward the desk from the other side of the lobby. He sighs. “Hey, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Alright, son. Are you coming home for thanksgiving? Gimme some good news to tell your Mama.”

“I'll be home,” Bucky promises. “I…I’ve got some stuff I wanna talk to you and Mom about.”

“Sure thing, son. Sure thing. Keep your head up.”

“Thanks, Pops.”

Quickly, Bucky hangs up and attends to the two girls, who apparently have lost the keys to their room. He gets replacements for them, has them sign the proper paperwork, and sends them on their way. Bucky spends the rest of his shift performing menial tasks and trying to catch up on some of his coursework. He's bored out of his mind, right up until the next clerk shows up to relieve him.

Bucky gathers his things and heads straight up to his dorm room. Surprisingly, when he opens the door, he finds Bruce inside, in the middle of unpacking his bags.

“Hey! When did you get back?” Bucky greets him with a quick pat on the back. “I was downstairs working at the desk—I didn't see you walk in.”

“Just about ten minutes ago,” Bruce says. “I came through the west door. How was your break? Didn't work yourself to death, did you?”

Bucky chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Nah, it was good—I had some fun.”

After Bruce finishes putting his clothes away, he leans against his bed, arms folded. “What'd you do? Did some of your brothers stick around?”

Shaking his head, Bucky stifles a sigh. “Well, I mean…I spent a lot of time with Steve.”

“Oh!” Bruce nods excitedly. “How was that?”

“Um—good?”

“That sounded like more of a question than an answer?”

Bucky groans softly, rubbing his forehead tiredly. “I mean, I don't know? Things were good—okay, things were great. Everything was so great, right? Until like, it wasn't.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Bruce asks carefully. “You don't have to. But if it's bugging you—which it clearly is—I'll listen.”

Bucky nods slowly, folding his arms securely across his chest. “Well…we hung out the first two days. We watched some movies together, got lunch—I even took him to the Quarry, which was so much fun. I mean we had a ball, bro. He really loved it,” Bucky inhales deeply, letting his head fall backward. “But…I just…he’s _so_ …” As Bucky grapples with his words, he uncrosses his arms and grabs at the air. 

“Use your words,” Bruce reminds him. “It’s just me and you—you can say exactly what you feel and I’m not going to judge you a bit, you know that.”

Sighing, Bucky lets his arms fall at his sides. “I don’t know what to do when I’m around him. I…I want to do things, you know? Like… _things_.”

“Like...sex?”

 _“No!”_ Bucky exclaims, waving his hands in the air. “No—I’m not even remotely prepared for that. No, just…you know? Things like hold his hand, and hug him and…and—”

“Kiss him.”

Bucky groans loudly, like a child throwing a tantrum. “Bruce, I wanna kiss him _so_ bad.”

“Well, does it seem like he wants to kiss you?” Bruce asks. Hesitantly, Bucky nods. “Okay, so then what’s the real issue here?”

“Me—it’s me. I’m the problem. It’s _always_ me.” Bucky gripes. “I don’t know…I don’t know what it is. He’s out, you know? He’s comfortable. And I… _want_ to be. God, I wish I was more _like_ him.”

“Are you afraid that he’s going to out you?”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Bucky quickly replies.

“But is it something _you’re afraid of?_ ”

Bucky shrugs. “I…maybe? I don’t know. Yeah? It doesn’t make sense.”

Bruce examines Bucky for a moment, eyes slightly narrowed and very far away. His teeth tug at his bottom lip and for a moment, Bucky feels completely exposed under his gaze. He knows this look—he _hates_ this look.

“Rumlow used to do that,” Bruce says, matter-of-factly. “He used to threaten to out you to your brothers—I remember that.”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s voice is flat, emotionless, and completely devoid of the fervor  with which he spoke, only moments ago.

Bruce notices that, too. “I know that was hard for you,” Bruce begins, speaking softly and slowly. “But I don’t think that’s something you have to worry about, here. Steve isn’t going to hold that against you—hell, the way you talk about the kid, I don’t think he has one mean bone in his body. I know that you’re apprehensive because of what’s happened to you, but I think…I think you’re safe here, pal. I think you can feel safe with him.”

“I _do_ feel safe with him. Listen—I held his hand. I cuddled with him on his futon like a stupid teenager—and I _almost_ kissed him, Bruce. It almost happened. But there’s always just something telling me that I shouldn’t. That it’s not right, that I should stop and leave him alone and…I don’t know, that he’d be better off without me like, trying to do _anything_ with him. And that if I take things too far, everyone will find out—just like that. I know—not rational. I know that. I know he’s not like Rumlow. In my head, I know that.”

“But sometimes, you still get scared.”

Reluctantly, Bucky nods. “It’s like a constant thing. Always under my skin—scared for no reason.”

“You’ve been hurt before—that’s reason enough to have some fear,” Bruce tells Bucky. “What happened after you almost kissed him?”

“I bailed.” Bucky confesses. “And then I called Sam, and Sam told me to apologize, so I did. And Steve didn’t seem mad? But…I haven’t seen him since Saturday.”

“You’ve been avoiding him.”

“It’s easier.” Bucky argues. Bruce gives him a knowing look. “Okay, it’s not actually easier but it stops me from doing dumb things—like kiss him.”

“You should probably just do it if that’s what you want to do.”

“I can’t, Bruce. I want to—but I can’t.” Bucky says. “I…if I do that, it might complicate things. So…it’s safer if we just stay friends, you know?”

“That’s a logical thought.” Bruce notes. “Listen—I’m not going to tell you what to do. But let me just say that, you know…life is a lot more fun when you follow your heart. Don’t get in your own way, buddy. _That_ is what complicates things.”

“Come on, man,” Bucky moans tiredly. “You’re supposed to be my voice of reason, or whatever.”

“I _am_ —the reasonable thing to do here would be to stop punishing yourself. You want to do something? Do it. As long as it’s not hurting anyone, why shouldn’t you? Accept the good, Bucky.”

“Ugh.” Bucky gives up, turning around to throw himself onto his mattress.

Bruce, used to his dramatics, just shrugs. “You are making this harder than it needs to be.”

“No I’m not, shut up.”

At that, Bruce laughs. “Are we twelve, now?” He turns around and picks up a stress ball from his desk, chucking it at Bucky’s head. Bucky doesn’t even flinch. He just raises his hand high and gives Bruce the middle finger. Bruce walks over and lays a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

 _“Accept the good,”_ Bruce repeats. “It doesn’t happen often, you know?”

Bucky wishes it were that easy, but it isn’t—not for him. What has he ever done to deserve the good? Things like this—people like Steve? They are not for Bucky. He doesn’t deserve them.

**________________________________________________________________________________**

The next two weeks are arguably the most boring weeks of Steve’s college career. Bogged down with coursework, he finds that he doesn’t have time to do much else. He’s raised his Spanish grade to a low C and if he wants to maintain it, or even raise it, he has to buckle down. He spends more time studying with Wanda and in his professor’s office than he spends in his own room.

Natasha helps him with his coursework for his Women’s Studies course. Since she’s taken it before, she’s way more knowledgeable than he is, and still has some of her annotated articles, which she gives to Steve. She saves his life—and his grades—more than once.

Art History is absolutely mind-numbing. Steve, since he's taken a version of this class before, is bored stupid with the material and with every single lecture. He has yet to find a way to keep his eyes open in this class.

His drawing class has turned to chaos—they’re doing charcoal drawings now, which Steve is decidedly terrible at. It makes him miss his dad more than he’s able to explain. He’d give anything just to have his father’s hand guiding his own across the blank paper. But that is not something he’s ready to admit.

Steve’s Drawing I grade is slipping because his drawings are worse than ever. He attends the Art Society meetings, just to have a quiet place to draw, and multiple sets of eyes to look over his work, but it doesn’t help as much as he wants it to. Overwhelmed, Steve doesn’t know which way to turn. There’s no stop to the projects, homework, and essays—everything runs back to back and there is no end in sight.

And in the midst of this, Steve tries to ignore the fact that he’s thrown himself into his work to _try_ not to think about Bucky.

Steve hasn’t seen him since fall break. They’ve talked—or rather, they’ve text back and forth...only to have the conversation fall silent after a few texts—but not seeing him has been different. Lonely. Steve knows that he’s avoiding Bucky, but he’d rather do that than put himself in an awkward situation again. He knows how he feels about Bucky, and it’s not something that’s going to disappear soon. Therefore, in order to preserve his own peace of mind, and to respect Bucky’s space and situation, Steve stays away.

People notice. Wanda is the first to ask, surprisingly. Steve isn’t sure if she likes Bucky or not, but she notices his absence. Not long after, Natasha, Clint, and Peggy are all curious too. Steve tells them that he’s just busy, and that he doesn’t have time to see Bucky anymore. The only person who picks up on _that_ lie is Natasha .

It happens when they’re in Clint’s dorm, all trying and failing to study. Clint is in his bed, five pages deep into a Wikipedia article about hawks; Natasha is lying in bed beside him, on her back, sending ugly snapchats to Peggy; and Steve is sitting in the black bungee chair at Clint’s desk, erasing the lines of a drawing in his personal sketchbook, obsessing over the smallest mistakes he can’t seem to undo.

“Are you coming to Peggy’s apartment tomorrow?”

Steve looks over at her, wearing a curious expression. “What’s happening at Peggy’s?”

“Steve—what the hell? Where’s your head?” Natasha frowns.

Clint looks up from his laptop, eyeing Steve  skeptically. “She’s throwing a Halloween party,” Clint informs him. Steve is almost taken aback. “It was Nat’s idea.”

“Peggy’s throwing a _party?_ ” Steve repeats. “She doesn’t even… _what?_ ”

“What do you think she did all that time when she was in London? And visiting Paris? I’m telling you, Steve—Europeans know how to party .”

Steve balks at this new information. “Why didn’t I know this?”

“Well, you were home and I mean, you weren’t exactly having the most fun time of your life,” Clint chimes in.

“And plus—since you got here, you and Barnes have been attached at the hip, so you missed all the Drunk-Peggy shenanigans,” Natasha pauses, tilting her head. “Speaking of tall-dark-and-fratty—where’s he been? Haven’t seen him around lately.”

Steve shrugs. “I dunno,” he answers quickly.

“You guys haven’t been hanging out?”

“I’ve been really busy—I don’t have time to hang out with him.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows, eyeing Steve watchfully. He doesn’t make eye contact with her—he leans toward his sketchbook, burying his nose in the drawing. The sound of his pencil scratching across the page echoes in the suddenly silent room. Natasha hums softly and nods, returning to her previously relaxed position.

“Okay,” she begins. “Well, you’re coming tomorrow, and you should invite him. I’ve already invited Sam, and I know those two are pretty good friends, so it’d be weird if he wasn’t there.”

“Sure,” Steve answers flatly, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’ll do that.” Abruptly, Steve drops his pencil and sits straight up, wearing a perplexed expression. “I don’t have a costume.”

Natasha and Clint groan in unison.

 _“Stevie!”_ Natasha sits up again. “How did you manage to go all of October without even _thinking_ about Halloween, and getting a costume?”

Steve shrugs, folding his arms over his chest. “I don’t know? I forgot.”

“You forgot about a national holiday—the _best_ national holiday,” Clint chimes in.

Steve won’t admit it, but he can barely remember the last Halloween he celebrated. He knows that it was before his father passed away, because his dad had _loved_ Halloween. Sarah had never been into it, but that never stood in the way of her husband’s enthusiasm. Every year for as long as Steve can remember, he dressed up as a zombie—not because he had any affinity for zombies, but because his dad would always paint his face, and it always looked like he’d had it done by a professional makeup artist. If there was ever a costume contest at school, Steve always won.  Nevertheless, when his dad passed, he began to lose interest in the holiday. Money was tight—costumes were expensive. Steve got too old for trick or treating. After a while, it didn’t matter so much—Halloween lost its charm.

“I don’t want to buy a costume—they’re expensive.”

Clint laughs. “Dude, I’m not buying a costume either!”

“What are you going as?”

“It’s a surprise—obviously.”

Steve looks to Natasha, who just shrugs.

“Same,” she shakes her head at Steve. “You’re an artist—you’re creative—you can come up with something.”

“That’s not how creativity works, but okay.” Steve picks up his pencil again. “I’ll figure something out,” he mumbles to himself.

“It’s college’s favorite holiday, man,” Clint adds. “Basically an excuse to be drunk and half naked at the same time—it’s revolutionary.”

“Count me out on the half-naked part.”

Later that evening, when Steve is back in his dorm, he googles “easy Halloween costumes” and about a million results come up. In the midst of searching, Steve hears the lock on his door clicking. He turns around just as Sam comes through the door. He’s dressed nicely—compared to his usual combination of basketball shorts and t-shirts—and he’s wearing the happiest smile that Steve has ever seen on his face.

Steve swings around in his chair to face Sam. “Where’ve _you_ been?”

Sam shuts the door behind him and then drops into his chair with a contented sigh.

“On a _date_.” He grins.

Steve perks up immediately. “No shit? With who?”

“Do you remember the guy from my policy class? T’Challa?” Steve nods. How could he forget a face like _that_? 

“How’d it go?”

Sam sighs again with a warm and gooey smile. It’s almost the grossest, most endearing thing Steve has ever seen.

“I picked him up after my last class—and after I showered and changed, because I had to look _good_ , you know what I’m sayin’? Anyway, we go to this restaurant he suggests; it’s like, forty minutes out. I’ve never heard of the place before and I can’t even tell you the name of it—but it’s this cool Ethiopian restaurant where you like, eat everything with your hands? So we get there, right? He takes one look at the menu and he goes _‘order whatever you want’_ and instantly I’m like, this guy is loaded for real, because every entrée is at least thirty bucks.”

Steve leans forward against his chair, nodding slowly as he listens to Sam.

“So anyway, everything comes out on a tray so we can share it. Coolest thing I’ve ever seen. And we talked the whole time. About classes, about my family—about _his_ family, and what it’s like back in his country. He made it sound like this place was _magic_ , alright. And—like there was never a lull in conversation? I could talk to him all night, I swear. And then? After dinner we went to the pier and just walked around. And talked more.” He sighs again, still grinning.

“You’ve got it so bad,” Steve chuckles softly. “At least tell me you kissed the guy.”

“He spent like, one hundred dollars on me tonight, how could I not?” Sam jokes. “But really, it was nice…it was really nice.”

Steve smirks, eyeing Sam knowingly. “Thought you weren’t going to go for it?”

Sam shrugs, throwing his hands up. “I didn’t think I would? But…I don’t know, one day after class we just got to talking and I just asked him out,” he admits. “And yeah, he’s leaving in the spring but, y’know—sometimes you gotta take a chance, right?”

Nodding, Steve smiles softly. “Yeah, right.” he replies. “I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks, man. It’s just so weird,” Sam says, standing up from his chair and heading to his closet. “I don’t think I’ve ever been able to talk to someone the way I can talk to him? And I’ve dated _plenty_ of people—I’ll admit, some regrettably—but this guy…I don’t know. When I’m around him, talking is easy—smiling and laughing are easy. Everything just kind of… _goes_ , you know? Have you ever felt like that?”

Steve is instantly, embarrassingly reminded of Bucky, of Fall Break, of how easy it was for them to talk and laugh and just be _together._

He nods. “Yeah, I have.”

Now he’s thinking about Bucky, and that’s the worst thing he could do. Steve tries to tell himself that this isn’t his moment, that this is Sam’s moment and that he most _definitely_ should not be thinking about Sam’s brother when Sam is telling him about his own feelings. But he can’t help it—he’s _felt_ that, all of it with Bucky. And he knows that he shouldn’t have felt any of it, because he and Bucky aren’t a thing and won’t ever be. There’s no sense in drowning in impossibly unrequited emotions.

“Where’d you go, man?” Sam’s voice brings Steve back to reality. “You went all soft-eyed on me.”

“Sorry,” Steve quickly apologizes. “I’ve just…got a lot on my mind, I guess.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Sam asks. “I give great advice, or so I’ve been told.”

Steve shrugs, exhaling tiredly. “I…I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“I’m sure it isn’t.”

“Trust me—it is,” Steve contests, letting his shoulders slump forward. “So…there’s this guy. And I really like him. And I think he likes me? I mean…I know he likes me but he’s not…well, stuff gets in the way, you know? But like…I don’t know, whenever we’re together I feel like I…I feel like I’ve known this guy forever. But I know he can’t…return my feelings? So I just…? I don’t know. See? I told you it was stupid.”

Sam shakes his head. “Listen—you’re sure this guy likes you?”

“I mean, yeah?” Steve doesn’t say _‘I’ve held his hand’_ or _‘I think we almost kissed’_ , and he just nods. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

“Well, I don’t know what _stuff_ is getting in the way,” Sam starts. “But I do know that when two people like each other, it’s pretty hard to let anything get in the way for too long. That’s not how life works, man. Things work out—I really believe that. And if you both really want it to work out, it’ll work itself out.”

“I don’t know if he wants it to work out, though.”

“Do you still talk to him?”

“Yeah? Almost every day.”

“He wants it to work out—if he didn’t, he’d ignore you. Let’s be honest. When a guy loses interest, you can always tell.” Sam lifts his shoulder in a half shrug. “Might as well chance it—never know what could happen.”

Sam rummages through his closet and pulls out his typical gym clothes. “Not to change the subject but I’m going for a jog with Bucky—wanna come? ”

Steve almost laughs. The subject hasn’t changed at all.

“ _Asthma_ ,” Steve says, turning around at his desk again. “Thanks, but no thanks. Anyway, I’m trying to figure out a Halloween costume.”

“Oh yeah, for the party.” Sam cups his chin, thinking for a moment. “Oh dude—I’ve got the perfect idea for you.”

He comes over to Steve’s laptop and starts typing into the search bar. When the image results come up, Steve grins.

“You’re right, it is perfect.”

“You’ll be a walking pun—it’s _so_ you.”

The two of them high five one another and Steve starts wondering where he can get some cardboard and a piece of string.

**________________________________________________________________________________**

_(4:00) hey, I know you’re probably busy tonight but Peggy (and Nat I guess?) are throwing a Halloween party. You’re welcome to come—I know Nat invited Sam too so, yeah. You should come._

Bucky spends about five minutes staring at Steve’s text. He types out a response maybe seven times, but the words are never right.

“Hey, dude—come on, what are you doing?”

At the sound of Gabe’s voice, Bucky looks up. He’s standing at the top of a ladder, waiting for Bucky to hand him another set of orange lights to hang across the ceiling.

Bucky pockets his phone. “Sorry, bro.” Bucky picks up the bundle of lights and untangles them before handing them up.

“You okay? You looked a little weird over there.”

“I’m good,” Bucky answers quickly. “Did you want the cobwebs next?

“Yeah.”

Upstairs, Dernier and Morita shout back and forth about where they should hide the zombie. Bucky hears them finally decide to hang it from the showerhead. 

Dugan is in the kitchen with two others, pouring copious amounts of vodka into an oversized cooler, along with a bowl full of fruit and enough sugared-up grape kool-aid to kill a man. Bucky can already smell the concoction from the living room; he hears empty glass bottles crashing and colliding in the trash— after the fourth empty handle gets thrown away, he stops counting.

Sigma Delta’s annual Halloween party is _very_ important. This party is tradition—the drinks, the decorations, _everything_ is tradition. Though the other fraternities at the university throw their own parties, everyone always ends up at the Sig Delt house, and nobody leaves sober. Bucky can’t even remember his first SD Halloween party—all he remembers is waking up shirtless in on the front lawn, covered in silly string, with his clothes neatly folded up beside him. In the morning, he asked his brothers what happened, but they couldn’t remember either. With hangovers and weak stomachs, they spent twelve hours cleaning the house the next day. Bucky has always considered that night to be his true initiation into Greek life.

He remembered much more of his second Halloween, last year’s. They’d named the party “Nightmare on Sig Street.” Bucky and all of his brothers dressed up as Greasers and the girls from Chi Nu were all Pink Ladies. That night, he’d been on the outs with his ex, who didn’t show up to the party for a multitude of stupid reasons. He ended up playing Drunk Spin the Bottle with at least five girls from Chi Nu and _that_ was where he got his unfortunate reputation for being a ladies’ man. That morning, he thankfully woke up in his own bed, but woke up to at least three different videos of him kissing three different girls. It’s a wonder  that those videos didn’t make it to the internet.

This year, Bucky is determined to make it through the night without getting blackout drunk and doing anything he’ll regret in the morning. However, they elected to name this year’s party ‘Boos and Booze’ so he can’t be sure he’ll live up to that first part.

After helping Gabe set up the lights and cobwebs, Bucky does a walk-through of the house. All the furniture has been moved outside, and the decorations are all up now—ghosts hung up in the hallway, strobe lights in the living room, fake blood splattered on the walls and the mirrors, skeletons hung in every doorway, smoke machines on each floor, pictures hung upside down—everything is as it should be.

He goes outside with a roll of caution tape and a handful of plastic rods. After placing them in the grass around the front lawn, Bucky rolls the caution tape around them, blocking off the yard.

“It’s perfect!” he calls to Morita, who has stepped outside of the house, beer in hand.

He grins at Bucky. “It is—gonna be one hell of a night.” He chugs his beer and tosses the can into the front lawn.

About an hour later, the food arrives. Dernier, who’s loaded, offered to have the whole party catered. Bucky greets the caterers and helps them bring all the food into the kitchen, where he starts setting it up on the table. In the midst of this, Dugan swoops into the kitchen and shoves a can of Bud Light into Bucky’s hand.

“Okay—work time is over. Now it’s time to drink,” he declares.

Bucky doesn’t argue with him. He pops the tab on the beer and throws one back.

Together, they spend the rest of the evening applying the finishing touches, mostly involving Bucky making the entire party playlis t, which includes all of the 90’s R&B songs he’s been obsessed with since middle school. He blames  Sam entirely for this.

The first to arrive are all their new members, including Pietro, who’s promised to dye his hair back after Halloween. They bring all the other supplies, like plates, forks, solo cups, and ice. Some of them—who are of age—bring more booze, and they get brownie points for that.

On his fourth beer, Bucky decides that it’s time to get dressed. He’s getting texts and notifications from other people, saying “So excited!” and “Can’t wait for the party to start!” and he knows that means that people will be on their way soon. So, he goes up to Dugan’s room and starts pulling on his costume, which takes much longer because he’s already a little bit tipsy. When he comes downstairs, costume on, Pietro is standing at the bottom of the stairs with a perplexed look on his face.

“What are you?” he asks, accent thick in his speech. 

“I’m Hercules!” Bucky announces. “Except, like teenage Hercules, ‘cause I wanted to wear a toga.”

Pietro laughs aloud, pressing a hand to his chest. “Shit, man—you’re a Greek God. ” At the top of the stairs, Bucky bows and tips his golden crown of laurels, pleased with himself.

They finally get the music going, and they open all the windows and doors to let the sound filter outside. As soon as the sun begins to set, the first guests start filing in. Thor and Riley are some of the first—Bucky doesn’t ask where Sam is because he already knows. Thor is dressed as He Man, and Riley comes as Spock. He’s already drunk and every time he talks to someone, he gives them the Vulcan salute and says “live long and prosper” Bucky makes sure to get that on snapchat more than once.

As the night goes on, the house fills up—soon, there are people standing shoulder to shoulder along the walls, body to body in the middle. Bucky spots at least three ‘Sexy Police Officers’, a dozen ‘Sexy Cats’, five guys dressed up as either Superman or Batman, and two guys dressed up as Ketchup and Mustard.  Someone from Zeta Omicron Tau brings Cornhole and sets it up in the front yard for people to play, and a group of girls from Gamma Omega Mu dressed as Sexy Nurses bring in Halloween themed Jell-O shots, enough to intoxicate an army. At some point in the night, Dugan puts their new members on display in the front room and makes drunkenly them loudly chant the fraternity’s oath to all of their guests, right before he has them all do a row of three shots. Bucky knows for a fact that those boys will not be making it home tonight, and hopes that someone will be sober enough to move the couches back into the house at the end of the night so they’ll have somewhere to sleep. 

Morita convinces Bucky to do shots with him, even though they’ve already been drinking from the coolers filled with their secret drink. He’s not sure what’s in the shots, but they’re sweet and they remind Bucky of Steve, which makes his chest ache in ways that he can’t understand. 

He takes the shots—he tries to forget.

Later on, he helps Dernier set up a beer bong that reaches from the second floor of the house all the way to the front yard. They have to climb out of the window and stand on the roof to use it, and Bucky almost falls off the roof laughing at the freshman on the ground who gets a face full of beer because he forgot to put his mouth on the other end of the bong.

Once they climb back in through the window, they head back downstairs, where the party is still going strong. The rooms are filled with smoke and the colorful spotlights illuminate the room, showcasing some of the most ridiculous costumes. Bucky posts up on the wall, palming a beer as he watches everyone dance and jump around. Girls and guys are pressed up against one another, kissing in the middle of the floor, grinding against the walls. A girl from Gamma Omega Nu comes over and asks him if he wants to dance, but he politely declines, because she’s plastered and he feels like he should respect her space, and avoid getting thrown up on. 

“Hey! Hey, Bucky!”

Over the music, Bucky hears someone calling his name. When he searches around, he finds Sharon waving at him and squeezing through the crowd to get to him. He gives her the onceover, examining her costume. She’s wearing black pumps, a black skirt, and a white tank top with the boobs cut out, showcasing her purple bra.  When he realizes who she is, he laughs so hard that he nearly spits out his beer.

“Shit—you’re _Regina George_.”

Sharon smiles and does a little twirl. “Iconic—I know.” She tips her beer up to her lips and Bucky raises a curious eyebrow.

“Aren’t you underage?”

She cocks her head to the side and barks out a laugh. “Oh, we’re pretending like that matters? Like you weren’t just funneling Budweiser into Peter Parker’s mouth?” 

Bucky gives a half shrug. “Touche.”

Nodding proudly, Sharon drinks more of her beer. Bucky does the same.

“How long have you been here?” He asks.

“About an hour? I think?” She answers. “I was thinking of heading to Peggy’s soon—she and Nat are throwing a party.”

It is in that moment that Bucky finally remembers that he forgot to text Steve back.  He whips his phone out of his pocket to see that he definitely has more than one text from Steve, and one from Sam too.

_real bro_

_(10:10) I know you’re with your pseudo-brothers or whatever but you should really drop by Peggy’s. I’m drunk and I miss you bro._

_Pixie Stick_

_(9:03) did you get my text from earlier?_  
_(10:12) I heard your frat was throwing a party and you’re probably really busy with that, but let me know if you plan on coming to peggys._  
_(10:15) sam is so drunk. he’s telling me embarrassing childhood stories about you._  
_(11:15) did I do something to make you upset?_

Bucky groans out loud and smacks his palm against his forehead.

“What’s wrong?” Sharon asks. “Forget about an assignment or something?”

“Yeah,” Bucky tells her. “I’m an idiot.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself!” Sharon tells him, patting him on the back. “Hey, where’s your bathroom?”

“Up the stairs, first door on the left.”

Sharon nods, handing Bucky her almost-empty bottle of beer.

“When I come back, do you wanna stop by Peggy’s together?”

Bucky hesitates, lost for words. Sharon gives a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Tell me when I come back down.”

She rushes upstairs to the bathroom, leaving Bucky alone to mull over his thoughts and mistakes. He hadn’t meant to not text Steve—it’d completely slipped his mind. And now, seven hours and four texts later, Steve thinks that _he_ did something wrong. Bucky feels like a complete idiot, like the lowest of the low. He wants to text Steve back, but he doesn’t know how to apologize for being so terrible. And just as he’s obsessing over his mistakes, the greatest mistake of all walks through the door.

Bucky hears his laugh before he sees him.

He watches Dugan and Falsworth greeting him at the door, with hugs and pats on the back, guiding him inside as if he belongs here. 

Rumlow spots Bucky easily, as if Bucky were wearing a homing device to tell him exactly where he was. He comes over with a wicked grin on his face and Bucky feels sick. There is no one to turn to, and there is nowhere to run—he’s stuck.

“Whoa—calm down, I don’t bite.” Rumlow holds up his palms, stepping toward Bucky. “Unless you’re into that—can’t remember, are you? ” he teases. “Kidding, I’m kidding.”

“Do you need something?” Bucky manages to spit out; he wishes he wasn’t holding his and Sharon’s bottles, or else he’d be clenching his fists and preparing to punch Rumlow directly in the face.

“I just came over to talk—see how you’ve been,” Rumlow admits. “You stopped answering my texts.”

“I got a new number,” Bucky lies.

Rumlow just keeps smirking . “No, you didn’t.” he says. “You don’t have to lie, Buck. I can always tell when you’re lying, you know? You bat those pretty eyelashes at light speed.”

Bucky steels his jaw and looks away, trying to fight away the nervous tightness in his chest.

“So? How’ve you been?”

Bucky opens his mouth to speak and to curse and fight, but when he feels a delicate hand curling around his, everything just stops. Sharon is at his side, clinging to his arm. When she leans up to kiss his cheek, ignoring Rumlow’s presence entirely, Bucky has to stop himself from freaking out. 

Rumlow, completely put off, raises his palms again and takes a step back. “I’ll talk to you later, man. Nice seein’ ya, Sharon.”

Once he’s gone, Sharon lets go of Bucky and he stares down at her, demanding an answer. She shrugs.

“People are usually uncomfortable with public displays of affection.” Bucky remains silent, still at a loss for words. Sharon rolls her eyes. “Look, I don’t know what your history with that asshole is, and I don’t really care. He’s not nice and you don’t like him, but you’re too nice to tell him to step off, so I made him disappear. It’s that simple.” She reaches out and takes her beer from Bucky’s hand. “I’m channeling my inner Mean Girl—anyway, Peggy’s?”

This time, Bucky doesn’t hesitate. “Whenever you’re ready.”

When Sharon finishes her beer, they’re off. As soon as they’re outside and away from the party, Bucky feels like he can finally breathe again. As he walks beside Sharon and keeps her steady in her heels, he wants to tell her how grateful he is for her, but the words just don’t come out right. So he just makes sure she doesn’t fall or break an ankle and hopes that’s enough, and that she gets that he cares about her.

The town’s streets are filled with people, all costumed and unrecognizable. Candy wrappers and bits of pumpkin litter the streets and, oddly enough, Bucky’s certain that, at some point, he saw their school’s mascot roaming the streets too. Sharon rambles on about Peggy, and about how her party will be full of international students because Peggy’s friends with a lot of them, and because ‘international students know how to party’. Bucky finally decides that tonight is a weird night.

When they get to Peggy’s apartment complex, Bucky can already hear the music shaking the walls from outside. He follows Sharon into the building, careful not to fall up the stairs or let _her_ fall up the stairs either. Sharon doesn’t bother knocking at the door; she grabs the doorknob and throws the door open with reckless abandon, strutting into the apartment with full, unbridled confidence. Bucky hesitates at the door, trying to ready himself for 1) a barrage of people that he doesn’t know and 2) a possibly pissed-off Steve. Although he is significantly intoxicated, he is prepared for neither of those things.

He watches Sharon run directly into Peggy’s arms, hugging her cousin as if she hasn’t seen her in years. Peggy, dressed as Rosie the Riveter and visibly drunk, hangs all over her and kisses her cheek, leaving ruby red kisses along her face. Bucky’s eyes scan the room and he sees a few familiar faces—but no Steve. He hangs his head, feeling discouraged and embarrassed that he was looking for him in the first place.

But all of those feelings come to an immediate halt when he sees Steve emerging from a room in the back of the apartment with Wanda in tow. When Steve sees him, his whole face lights up; his blue eyes bright and warm, a smile blooming on his face—it's adorable. 

“You made it!” he exclaims. Steve rushes over to him, Wanda following close behind, and throws his arms around Bucky, who is too drunk to care that he’s hugging him in front of everyone. “I’m happy you made it,” Steve sighs, tequila on his breath. Bucky wonders just how long _he’s_ been drinking.

“Me too,” Bucky admits. “I’m sorry I missed all your texts. I was so busy today, I just forgot to reply.” he blurts out.

Steve gives him one last squeeze before he lets him go. “It’s okay—you’re here. But you have to let Nat make you a shot.”

“I’ve had plenty.”

“No!” Wanda pipes up. “Everyone who walks through that door has to take a shot!” She shakes a white and blue pom-pom in his face for emphasis, and Bucky is both amused and slightly intimidated. He hasn't forgotten her initial opinion of him, after all.

Steve smiles up at Bucky. “She’s a cheerleader.”

“I’m a cheerleader!”

Bucky chuckles. “She’s also very drunk.”

Wanda sighs, letting her hands and pom-poms fall to her sides. “I _am_ very drunk.” 

Steve takes Bucky’s arm, and Wanda’s hand, and leads them into the kitchenette, where Peggy and Sharon are still hugging, and Natasha is shaking something in a mixing glass. She’s dressed in all green and her hair is all done up and wavy. Immediately, Bucky recognizes her costume and applauds her for her dedication—Poison Ivy is definitely in good taste. When Natasha turns around, her eyes widen immediately and she wolf-whistles loud enough to be heard over the music.

“Who puts the _glad_ in _gladiator_?” she shouts,  laughing. At least give people in the other room shout _HERCULES_ at the top of their lungs and Bucky has to cover his mouth to keep from laughing. “Wow—we’ve got a Greek god in our midst.”

Steve’s jaw drops. “Oh my god, you’re Hercules.”

“It’s my favorite Disney movie,” Bucky confesses. “Plus…I own more than one toga. So,” He looks down at Steve’s outfit, noticing that he’s wearing pretty normal clothes. But then, when he sees the sign hanging from Steve’s neck, he laughs out loud. “C’mon, man.”

“It’s creative.”

“It’s so _you_.” Bucky keeps laughing. “A fuckin’ Nudist on Strike, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Steve gives a half shrug. “It was last minute.”

“It’s genius— it’s great.”

“C’mere, Barnes,” Natasha waves him into the kitchen. “Hold out your hand—I’m going to change your life.”

Bucky holds out his hand and watches Natasha place a shot glass full of orange liquid in his hand.

“What is this?”

“It’s called Knockout Punch. Don’t ask what’s in it—it’s better if you don’t know. You only need one shot and you’re good.”

“I’m a little scared?”

"Then you're a smart man.”

Bucky takes the shot—it’s sweet, almost like fruit punch, and he can’t taste a single trace of alcohol. That’s never a good sign.  Natasha hands Bucky a beer and sends him on his way before she starts pouring shots for everyone else.

Peggy greets Bucky with a tight hug, like she always does. This time she kisses his cheek, and Bucky realizes that this is the highest number of kisses from girls he’s gotten since the Chi Nu fiasco last fall. Clint notices him and shakes his hand, right before showing Bucky his costume. He’s wearing a white T-shirt with a compass drawn on it—there’s an ‘N’ at the top and the arrow points toward it. When Bucky doesn’t get it, Clint grins proudly and announces, “I’m _One Direction_ ” and it takes Bucky a full minute to stop laughing . Seconds later, Sam— dressed as Captain Kirk—finds Bucky and hugs him full on, patting him on the back harder than usual. Sam forgets how strong he is when he’s drunk—it’s one of the reasons why the door handle on the left back door of Bucky’s car doesn’t open anymore. He still hasn’t forgiven Sam for that.

“Thank god you made it,” Sam tells Bucky, hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Bucky nods. “Sharon got me out of there.”

“Peggy’s cousin?” Sam asks. Bucky nods. “Oh man, she’s great. She’s so great. She’s like Peggy, but smaller. Equally as intimidating, though.”

“She’s damn scary.” Bucky’s eyes scan the apartment.  He’s searching for Steve, who managed to sneak off in the midst of everything else. “Hey, I’ll be right back?” he tells Sam, who’s not even paying attention to him anymore. Bucky leaves him with Natasha, hoping that she won’t give him any more to drink. He doesn’t recognize anyone else at the party, which isn’t a bad thing, it just means that he’ll be able to find Steve faster.

When he finally spots him, Steve is standing in the dimly lit hallway, next to the same door he came out of earlier, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. Bucky approaches the empty hallway him with a curious gaze.

“You okay?” he asks.

Steve nods, sighing. “Wanda’s in there. She keeps getting nauseous and not throwing up.”

“You’re babysitting.” Bucky grins, laughing.

Rolling his eyes, Steve fights a smile. “I’m making sure she doesn’t die.” He gives Bucky the onceover, taking a sip of whatever is in his solo cup. “You look…your costume—I like it. I didn’t say that before. It’s good—the crown is a good touch.”

Smiling shyly, Bucky lowers his head and rubs the back of his neck.  “Thanks, man.”

“So you guys threw a party too?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah…spent all day decorating. And drinking. One of my bros got it catered and everything. It was… pretty great, I guess.”

“So why’d you leave?” Steve asks him.

Bucky gives a short half-shrug. “Honestly?” he says, because he wants to be honest with Steve. He wants to be here with him, to talk to him and smile with him because it’s been two weeks since he’s seen him and Bucky has missed him more than he can explain. Just _looking_ at him makes his chest ache all over again. He’s not sober enough to try to filter his emotions—everything seeps back in, fills him back up.

“My ex showed up,” he admits. “Every time I see his face I want to throw up or punch him and I couldn’t do either of those things, so I left with Sharon.”

Steve, visibly surprised by Bucky’s sudden confession, watches him with wide eyes.

“I…I’m glad you got out of there, then. Who the hell invited the guy?”

“He’s friends with all my brothers—he’s a popular piece of shit, let me tell you.”  Bucky closes his eyes and shakes his head, shaking away the memories. “It's better that I left,” He admits.  “I’d rather be here with you, anyway.”

Steve ducks his head but Bucky catches him smiling anyway. It makes him feel warm; the knots in his stomach begin to unfurl. When Steve looks up, his blue eyes capture Bucky immediately. Through all of Bucky’s haziness, all he can focus on is the blue of Steve’s eyes. 

“I missed you.” Steve confesses. “I mean…I haven’t seen you since fall break. I know you were busy, though. We’ve both been busy.”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods, nervously sweeping his hair behind his ear. “I should’ve made time. I like hanging out with you, y’know? But like…Fall Break was…?”

Abruptly, Wanda emerges from the bathroom. She leans against the doorframe, drunkenly staring at the two of them. Gradually, a goofy grin spreads across her face and she skips down the hallway, shaking her white and blue pom-poms in the air as she re-enters the living room.  After watching her go, Steve turns back to Bucky. His smile is different, almost sad.

“Yeah, it was.”

Bucky goes over to lean against the wall beside Steve, sighing heavily. “I made things weird.”

“ _I_ made things weird,” Steve insists, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his black jeans. “I shouldn’t have been…doing all that stuff.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say. The words are caught in his throat. He wants to tell Steve that he didn’t do anything wrong—that everything that happened were things that Bucky _wanted_ to happen. He wants to tell Steve that he’s all Bucky thinks about. He wants to tell Steve that he thinks he wants him, but he doesn’t know how to do it properly. Bucky opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. His throat is dry and his mouth is thick with unspoken words. He clenches and unclenches his hands, trying to get the truth out, but it hides behind his tongue, like it always does.

Steve exhales softly, raking his fingers through his blonde hair. “I just feel like,” he begins, staring down at the tan carpet. “Things kept happening? And sometimes…I don’t know, sometimes you said things that made it sound like you were flirting with me? And…I don’t know, I—I like you a lot, Bucky. But I feel like we’re friends, and I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”

Bucky, blind with liquid courage, turns to Steve and says the first thing that comes to mind.

“Ruin it.”

Steve’s eyes are wider than ever. His arms fall to his sides and he stares at Bucky with his mouth wide open.

“Did you just— do you mean that…?”

“I’m not good at this,” Bucky sputters. “But…I’ve been an idiot. I have all these _feelings_. And—and every time I’m around you I get this feeling in my chest like I’m about to have a fuckin’ asthma attack. I want to…hold your hand, all the time. And— _fuck_ , I don’t know. I don’t know, but I can’t just be your friend. I don’t wanna do that.”

Steve swallows hard, anxiously watching Bucky. He rubs his hands together, clasping them at his chest. Bucky is facing him now, not even six inches apart from him, and he can smell the sweet scent of his hair, even from where he stands.

“What does that mean?” Steve asks in a low voice. Bucky can barely hear him over the music and as he watches his lips, he finds himself staring, unable to look away.

“I think… it means that I like you. A lot,” Bucky confesses.

Steve reaches out and takes Bucky’s hand; Bucky doesn’t even try to stop him. His pulse is erratic; he is rabbit hearted and liquid- willed. Steve’s palms are sweaty but Bucky doesn’t care—he still grips his hand like he never wants to let go.

“Is this okay?”

Bucky nods slowly. “It’s more than okay.” He takes a step forward, closing the gap between them, and he could swear that he feels Steve gasp. Steve stares at Bucky’s mouth and bites his own lip. He notices a faint scar at the top of Steve’s lip.  For a moment, he wonders just how he got it. Bucky wants to learn every single thing about the boy standing in front of him and, more than anything in the world, he wants to know what his lips feel like.

“Can I?” Steve asks. “Can I kiss you?”

All of Bucky’s resolve leaves him when he breathlessly answers, _“Please.”_

Without another moment of hesitation, Steve stands on the tips of his converse, tilts his head, and leans forward.  His mouth is warm and soft, just like Bucky thought it’d be. He momentarily regrets having chapped lips,  but after a few seconds, Steve’s kiss makes him forget about this, makes him forget about everything. About the fact that they’re standing in the dark of a hallway, and that their friends are in the next room over, about the fact that Bucky shouldn’t want him, about the fact that he’s forgotten to breathe—everything.

Steve holds the back of Bucky’s neck, fingers twisting around his delicate hairs. Bucky’s hands are gripping the sides of Steve’s shirt, pulling him forward, pressing their chests together. He rests one arm behind Steve’s back, holding him tight. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he had to let go.

At first, Steve kisses him tentatively, almost carefully. His mouth tastes like fruit and sugar, much like the too-sweet shot that Bucky drank; when Steve’s warm, wet tongue slips into Bucky’s mouth, he doesn’t mean to, but he moans out loud. Bucky curses under his breath and pulls away, shaking and panting, trying to catch his breath. Steve looks almost _hurt_ , and Bucky quickly shakes his head.

“I don’t wanna stop,” he assures Steve. “But…” He glances behind him, to the party, remembering where they are. No one seems to have seen them, or missed them, but Bucky can’t be too sure.

Immediately, Steve grabs him by his toga and leads him forward. “Come with me.” Bucky follows without protest, trying his best to ignore the fact that Steve taking control and dragging him around really turns him on.  Steve opens the door at the end of the hallway and pulls Bucky inside before closing the door behind them.

“This…this is Peggy’s room.” Bucky observes, noting the glamorous décor and all the pictures of Peggy with friends and international monuments.

“She’ll forgive me,” Steve grabs Bucky’s hand again. “C’mere.” With a relieved smile, Bucky goes.

**________________________________________________________________________________**

When Bucky effortlessly lifts Steve off the ground, Steve almost stops kissing him just to admire his existence. But Bucky’s mouth is hot and inviting and Steve can’t be assed to pull away again. He’ll have to apologize to Peggy later for knocking over her perfume and possibly destroying a jewelry rack in transition.  He ends up with his back pressed up against the wall, legs around Bucky’s waist, and with Bucky’s arms cradling his ass.

Steve is so thankful for his new heart, because his old one would’ve completely given out.

He’s never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his _life_. Bucky’s tongue tastes like sweet, strong vodka; his earthy cologne has infiltrated Steve’s senses and he’s on overload. It’s taking every bit of willpower not to ask Bucky if he can take off his stupid toga and kiss him everywhere.

Bucky carries him over to the bed and sits down, with Steve’s legs still locked around his waist. Steve has never been in anyone’s lap like this before but it excites him like he’s never been before.

He runs his fingers along the string around Steve's neck, which holds up his sign. Bucky looks up at Steve, tugging at it.

"Can I take this off?"

With no hesitation, Steve flings it away.

Grasping the back of Bucky's head again, Steve plants slow, wet kisses along the line of his jaw, memorizing the shape of it with his mouth. Bucky’s pulse beats against Steve’s lips and Steve kisses his neck then, slow and tender. Bucky exhales heavily and squeezes Steve’s waist with both hands. His hands travel down Steve’s thighs, rubbing them gently, and then back up to his waist again. Steve trails kisses back up to Bucky’s mouth, capturing the brunette’s bottom lip softly between his teeth.

The music from the living room becomes a dull thud in the back of Steve’s mind—he forgets about everyone on the other side of the wall. The only thing that matters now is the man beneath him, and how he can’t believe that this is actually happening, that he’s actually kissing him.

Steve doesn’t miss the noises that Bucky makes as he’s kissing him; the gentle sighs, the labored breathing and full-on moans when Steve kisses his neck, the quiet curses that escape his lips every so often. Every sound sends electricity up and down Steve’s spine, fire in his chest. His groin is throbbing and he’s trying to ignore it, trying not to grind his hips against Bucky, trying to ignore the fact that he hasn’t been touched in _two whole years._

But after a while, it becomes too much. He can’t take a breath without thinking about it, without thinking about what it would be like to be in this bed with Bucky, to be underneath him.

“I gotta slow down,” Steve pulls away, reluctantly and breathlessly.

Bucky blinks and opens his eyes. His lips are red and swollen, which only serves to make Steve ache.

“Did I do something wrong?” Bucky asks immediately.

Steve shakes his head. “No, I…” he has no idea how to explain himself. He shakes his head again. “You did everything right. But I’m… really, _really_ turned on and I just need a minute.”

“Oh.” Bucky looks down, his eyes wide, and looks back up at Steve. “ _Oh_ …yeah. Yeah, totally.”

Steve climbs out of Bucky’s lap, sits down on the bed— painfully— and takes his first full breath. He feels Bucky watching him and when he turns to meet his eyes, Bucky grins. Steve returns the gesture and their smiling quickly turns to embarrassed laughter.

“That was… wow,” Bucky laughs to himself, covering his mouth. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, running his fingers through his hair. “You’re, um… strong.”

“Thanks?” Bucky bites his bottom lip like he’s trying to stop laughing. It doesn’t help Steve at all. “You’re a good kisser.”

“Thanks—I haven’t kissed anyone in two years, so that’s surprising.” Steve chuckles.

He’s surprised when Bucky leans over and kisses him again, quick and short, but sweet. Steve laughs softly and kisses him back, before pulling away again.

“We should probably get out of Peggy’s room,” he announces. “I’ll walk out first.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Bucky’s breath is hot against Steve’s skin, and it takes everything not to kiss him again. “I’ll meet you out there in five?”

Steve nods and stands up before he can change his mind again. Once he’s in the hallway again, he shuts the door behind him and leans against it, taking several deep breaths before reintroducing himself to the party.

He walks into the kitchen and looks for Natasha to make him a shot, but she’s not in there anymore. Instead, he grabs a beer from the cooler and pops the tab, taking a long drink. He swings around to find Sam behind him.

“Hey,” Steve says. “Where’s Nat? Have you seen her?”

“She’s on the couch.” Sam tells him. “Have you seen Bucky?”

Steve does his best to keep a straight face.  “Bathroom, I think.” Sam nods and goes to grab a beer. Steve walks around him and then into the living room, searching for Natasha.

He finds her on the couch indeed, underneath Peggy, who looks like she’s trying to smother Natasha with her mouth.  Both of them are covered in red lipstick and he’s not sure whose belongs to who. He wonders how long _that’s_ been going on, but is not sober enough to _really_ think about it.

Wanda and Sharon are in the armchair with Clint, laughing at something he’s showing them on his phone. Thor and Riley have arrived and Thor is taking pictures of Riley and Sam in their Star Trek costumes. There are people dancing, singing along to the music, and altogether having a great time.

No one even noticed that he’d been gone. Steve smiles.

When Bucky emerges from Peggy’s room, he grins at Steve and his hand brushes up against Steve’s when he goes to the kitchen for another drink.  Steve’s heart beats just a little faster. Bucky watches him from the kitchen, smiling at Steve like he’s got a secret. Steve doesn’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow when they’re sober, remembering everything, and he doesn’t think he cares, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [singing 'At Last']  
> also find me on tumblr so we can all be friends.  
> queerimagination.tumblr.com


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back at it again with the queer college nonsense.

Steve couldn’t imagine a better night than this. It’s far past four in the morning and the streets are silent. All of the night’s parties have ended, leaving lawns decorated with beer cans and smashed pumpkins. The air has picked up, and a cool, swift breeze rattles the trees. But Steve is warm. And it could be the alcohol in his system, or the fact that his hand is wrapped around Bucky’s, making him feel like he’s glowing from the inside out.

It’s late and it’s dark out, enough so that Bucky doesn’t feel nervous about walking hand in hand. Steve is grateful for the blanket of the night—holding hands has never felt so _right_. Every step he takes toward his dorm is reluctant, because Steve doesn’t want this night to end. In the morning, when the sun rises and the alcohol wears off, will everything be different? Will Bucky still be willing to hold his hand?

Steve is hopeful. He doesn’t pray anymore, but if he did, he would pray for this.

When they get to Steve’s dorm, they walk through the side door together, avoiding the RAs at the front desk. Together, they climb to the fourth floor and walk down the low-lit hallway until they reach Steve’s room. Bucky is looking down at Steve with a sort of softness in his eyes, and he shows no signs of relinquishing his hold on Steve’s hand. Steve turns to face him and tilts his head, smiling as he sighs.

“I don’t want to go inside,” Steve confesses in a low voice. “I kind of don’t want this night to end.”

Bucky is still mildly intoxicated, much lighter on his feet, and looser in his movements. He uses his thumb to rub gentle circles into Steve’s hand, shaking his head.

“Me either,” he whispers.  “I don’t like this part.”

Steve’s eyebrows go up. “What part is that?” he asks, watching Bucky curiously.

“The part where I have to stop myself from going inside, and settle for a kiss goodnight instead.”

“You can come in if you want to.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I shouldn’t,” he admits. “Still a little bit drunk.”

“True.” Steve knows he’s right—he hates that he’s right. “A kiss goodnight, huh?”

Running his fingers through his hair, Bucky grins. “Can I kiss you goodnight? You can say no…totally understand if you say no.”

“Bucky—please. Kiss me goodnight.”

He wastes no time. Bucky cups Steve’s face in his hands and leans in, pressing his mouth to Steve’s. Steve’s hands are flat against Bucky’s chest, feeling the rapid pulsing of his heart. Bucky’s lips are cold from the outside air, and just a little chapped, but Steve can’t say that he cares. He slides his hands up Bucky’s chest only to rest them behind his neck and pull him down and closer. Bucky palms Steve’s waist, pushing him back against the door to his room, kissing him harder than before, hungrier. He kisses Steve until he’s breathless and panting, until he has to virtually peel himself off of the smaller boy. Steve, reluctant to let go, leans against his door and heaves out a heavy breath, groaning when his eyes are met with the sight of Bucky’s swollen, red mouth.

“You can’t just…kiss a guy like that, then leave.” Steve pants, pushing his hair out of his face.

Bucky bites his bottom lip as he shakes his head. “I have to.” He leans forward and kisses Steve’s mouth once more before taking a big step back. “I’ll text you in the morning.”

“Okay,” Steve manages to say. Bucky is walking backward, but his eyes are still on Steve. “Get back safe.”

Nodding, Bucky waves at Steve one last time. He is smiling faintly and Steve’s eyes are on his lips—always, his red mouth. Steve wishes he had a pencil and paper _right_ now, just so he could draw Bucky’s mouth and commit it to memory. Silently, Steve leans against his door and closes his eyes as he listens to the echo of Bucky’s footsteps down the hallway. It isn’t until he reaches the stairwell that the sound disappears. Steve opens his eyes then and takes a deep breath.

_“Psst.”_

He snaps to attention at the sound, turning his head to look down the hall.

“Darcy?” Steve whispers, because it’s after quiet hours. Then again, his RA is right _there_ and she’s waving him down to her room.

“Yeah, come here!”

Cautiously, Steve makes his way down the hall, drunk-shuffling as he tries to keep quiet. He watches Darcy smile and make an excited steeple of her fingertips. Once he finally reaches her door, she explodes.

“Who was that _boy_?” she whispers, albeit loudly.

Steve blinks a few times. He tilts his head, sniffs the air. There’s a musky, sweet scent coming out of her room and it takes him a while to recognize it. However, once he does, his eyes nearly shoot out of his head.

“Are you— are you _smoking_?”

Darcy shrugs. “The hall director is on vacation—you didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m not answering your question. Are RAs—you’re not allowed to do that.”

“You’re underage, not supposed to be drinking, and yet...” Darcy waves him into her room. “Come on, I made pizza rolls.”

Steve, tipsy and hungry, scuffles into Darcy’s room with a sigh. She claps excitedly and plops down on the floor, where she’s arranged a shrine of pizza rolls, ranch dressing, and blue Kool-Aid.

“Tell me about the boy, Steve—you know I have to write stuff in the book.”

Yes, Steve knows she has to write stuff in the book. For a while now, Darcy has come knocking on Steve and Sam’s door twice a week, saying “ _I gotta write stuff_ ” and waving a small blue book in the peep hole for them to see. They let her in, of course, and she always asks them a series of weird-yet-intentional questions. The last few times though, she’s stayed so long that she’s put the book away and actually had normal conversation with them. Steve realized that Darcy is much more amiable when she’s not trying to be an RA, and actually being a normal college student.

Steve never mentions all the times that he’s seen her when he’s gone to the bars. They always make eye contact and Darcy always shakes her head and mouths “ _you didn’t see anything._ ” However, he will always be thankful for the fact that she’s never written him up for being loud after quiet hours, coming in drunk with Natasha, or unceremoniously puking in the men’s restroom and having to ask her to call the custodial staff because he felt too guilty to leave it there and was too drunk to clean it himself.

Darcy may be a mess of an RA, but she’s a good person.

“You can’t write about him in the book.”

“But it’s for the _Interpersonal Relationships_ section—here. take a plate—and you _know_ that section is important.”

Steve takes the plate and Darcy dumps pizza rolls on it. “I can’t tell you.”

“Is this a secret affair? _Scandalous._ ”

Popping a roll into his mouth, Steve rolls his eyes. “Oh my god, it’s not like that.”

“Well it’s somethin’! You sure were kissing him like it was somethin’!”

“Ugh,” Steve groans, chewing slowly, trying to get his mouth to cooperate with his brain’s commands. He drowsily watches as Darcy starts packing a rainbow-colored bowl right in front of him and Steve shakes his head. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“How else am I supposed to get through college without losing my shit?” Darcy shrugs. “Do you want some?”

“I have asthma.”

Darcy grins and laughs. “No shit? Me too,” she shares.

“That can’t be safe.”

“Alcohol will kill you before this does.” Darcy gives a half shrug. “Have you ever tried before?”

“I ate a brownie once in high school with my friend Clint,” Steve confesses. “First, I felt like I was gonna die and then I was high for two whole days.”

“Nice.”

After eating at least ten pizza rolls and listening to Darcy ramble on about why it’s so important for RA’s to talk to their residents, he gives in and tells her everything. But not before taking a short and experimental hit from her bowl, _and_ thinking of a fake name for Bucky. Steve will never admit to anyone, ever, that he drunkenly smoked weed with his RA while telling her about a boy he kissed—some things have to go to the grave.

When Steve goes back to his room (equipped with a bottle of water, Chex Mix, and ibuprofen from Darcy) he climbs right up into his bed. He notices Sam sleeping on the futon, still in costume, and Riley sleeping in Sam’s bed, in just his Spock-ears and boxers. Steve just eats his snack, takes two ibuprofen tablets, and drinks the entire bottle of water before completely passing out.

In the morning— which is actually more like noon— Steve wakes up to Riley (still dressed as Spock, still wearing the ears) waving an Egg McMuffin in front of his face.

It is then that Steve figures out he’s nursing the world’s worst hangover.

“Ugh,” he groans, taking the breakfast sandwich and laying it down on his pillow. “I might throw up…or die. Throw up and _then_ die.”

Sam, who’s still lying on the futon underneath Steve’s bed, shushes him softly. “Use your inside voice.”

Riley lies flat in the ground beside the futon, shoving a hash brown into his mouth.

Once his head stops throbbing, Steve unwraps the sandwich and takes a small bite, cringing when he starts to chew because it makes his whole face hurt. Then he pulls out his phone and turns down the brightness in order to check his phone. He needs to know how much damage has been done.

First, goes through his snapchat story, which turns out to be a goldmine. There are _numerous_ shiny-drunk-selfies. He’d never taken this many selfies in his _life._ In the first snap after his stream of self-portraits, Peggy and Natasha are on either side of him, kissing his cheeks and laughing, while Steve is grinning and squinty-faced. The next snap is a video of Wanda drunkenly cheering to a Carly Rae Jepsen song. Following this are a series of videos of Sam cackling at Clint’s shirt when he finally gets the One Direction joke, and after that there’s a video of Peggy and Sharon singing along to “Primadonna”, and Steve can’t even remember letting them have his phone.

Natasha sent one snap to Steve personally, and it’s a recording of Bucky singing along to a Twenty One Pilots song with the caption “ur boy’s got BARS ;)” He ignores that altogether.

Clint sent Steve a series of snaps with him and Sam playing around with the bird filter.

Finally, Steve opens up the very last snap, which is from Bucky. As soon as he opens it, he feels his face heating up. It was from the party, with Bucky obviously still trashed, mouthing the beginning of the chorus to “Wherever You Are,” and winking at the camera before the snap ends. Steve buries his face in his pillow and tries to fight away his feelings, or at least smother them to death. Again, Steve’s hands are burning to draw—aching and itching to draw him. But Steve fights the urge, shakes his head and denies himself.

All of a sudden, Steve gets a text. He glances at his phone again and finds that it’s from his mother. All it says is “It looks like you had a fun Halloween ;) stay safe sweetie!” And that’s when Steve realizes that there are definitely more pictures on Facebook. He groans.

“You looked at the internet, didn’t you?” Sam calls from the futon.

“I haven’t checked Facebook.”

“Probably best not to,” Riley adds.

Sam laughs. “Don’t check Instagram either.”

Steve pulls his blanket over his head. “I’m never drinking again,” he mumbles. They all know that’s not true.

After finishing his—now, cold—sandwich, Steve tries to motivate himself out of bed. But every time he moves, his head feels like it’s going to fall off his shoulders. However, when his text-tone dings again, and he sees that it’s a text from Bucky, Steve is immediately up and at attention.

 _(12:29) u doin ok?_  
_(12:29) Hungover, but alive. You?_  
_(12:30) im good i had to work at 8 so ive been up. also ok i dnt kno how to ask this w/o soundin stupid bt like can we hang out today? we dnt have to do anything—we can just study. u can say no._  
_(12:31) why would I say no? I’d really like that._  
_(12:34) ok. i get off at 4 just let me kno_

An hour later, when Steve finally decides to climb down from his bunk, Riley has fallen back asleep on the floor and Sam too, but still on the futon. He knows that the two of them won’t be moving anytime soon, and so he swiftly and quietly grabs his shower caddy and a clean towel before heading to the bathroom. The hallways are empty, as are the showers. Steve is sure that the rest of the dormitory, and probably all of campus, are about as hungover and exhausted as he is. Thankfully, his shower is hotter than usual, and Steve takes his time washing the strong scent of alcohol off his skin. The water relaxes the tightness in his muscles and brings him back to life, at least enough to get him out of his dorm.

After dressing and saying goodbye to Sam and Riley, who still haven’t moved from their spots in the room, Steve heads to the on-campus café in the Student Union. He makes sure to wear his contacts so he can put on a pair of sunglasses, because the sun is way too bright and his head still hasn’t stopped throbbing. When he gets to the café, the sweetness in the air makes his stomach churn. He pushes through it, going through the line and ordering the largest black coffee they can legally offer. He waits for his coffee at the end of the bar, scanning the room; he sees two familiar faces and, abruptly, more pieces of last night start flooding back.

Primarily, the piece of last night when he saw his best friend and his ex-girlfriend kissing on a couch.

“Hey,” he calls out to them in a voice loud enough for them to hear, but quiet enough to keep his headache at a dull throb. Both Natasha and Peggy are sporting messy buns, sunglasses, too-big t-shirts, and gym shorts. Peggy, towering over Natasha, spots Steve first. She waves weakly, clutching her coffee in her other hand. Natasha follows close behind, slouching uncharacteristically. Steve can’t remember the last time he’s seen the two of them without makeup. He saw Natasha with eyeliner on one eye once, and it was like he saw her naked. He thinks she would’ve been _less_ offended if he saw her naked.

“Last night was a little…rough,” Peggy starts off, probably noticing the way that Steve’s watching her.

“I second that,” Natasha adds in a low, raspy voice. “I feel like shit.”

“Thought you didn’t get hangovers.”

Although Natasha’s eyes are covered by her sunglasses, Steve knows that she’s glaring at him.

“Don’t push your luck, Rogers.”

When Steve finally gets his coffee, he sits down at a small table in the corner of the café with the two tired girls. Peggy is slumped in her seat, slowly sipping her iced coffee; Natasha’s elbows are on the table and she uses her palms to cradle her head as she sips her coffee from a straw. Steve, just as pathetic, tries to sip his coffee too soon and burns his tongue.

“We should never do that again.” Peggy begins. “My apartment is a wreck—someone slept in my tub and I didn’t find them until this morning. Peanut butter was stolen from my cupboard? And someone killed my jewelry rack!”

At that, Steve nearly chokes on his too-hot coffee but pretends to have burned himself again.

One day, he swears he’ll come clean about the jewelry rack. However, today isn’t that day.

“Who was in the tub?” he asks.

Peggy shrugs. “I have no idea who she was—however, she was very polite and understanding when I asked her to leave.”

Natasha rolls her eyes behind her shades. “Who steals _peanut butter_?”

“Drunk people.”

Peggy almost pouts. “I don’t think I’ll ever throw another party.”

“It was a great party,” Natasha insists. “The cops didn’t show up once _and_ no one had to get their stomach pumped so I’d call that a success.”

Steve frowns. “The bar is so low.”

“It’s November and _none_ of us has gone to the hospital yet—the bar is high, my friend,” Natasha insists. Steve pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Barton and I got our stomachs pumped _twice_ last year.”

“That’s pitiful,” Steve laughs. “You guys are worse than frat boys.”

Natasha just smiles. “Oh, I’m sure you’d know,” she teases. Steve holds his composure and sips his coffee slower than normal. “Speaking of frat boys, how’s our favorite doing? Did he make it home okay?”

Steve nods, trying his best not to let his emotions show on his face—Natasha is too perceptive for her own good. “He’s good,” Steve answers. “I’m heading over to his dorm later so we can catch up on some coursework.”

“It’s impressive that you can actually use your mental capacities after a night like that,” Peggy chimes in.

“Very,” Natasha adds, still watching Steve. After she takes another long sip from her straw, she tells Steve that she has a bunch of pictures from last night that she still needs to send him. Steve is almost hesitant—historically, Natasha is the most skilled at taking candid photos. Steve can’t quite remember all of last night, and he’s wary of any pictures that Natasha may have taken of him in such a state. He goes through the pictures, stone-faced, especially when he comes to one in which Natasha caught him staring at Bucky with a lovesick grin on his face. Not only is that _embarrassing_ , but also it’s something that Steve wishes Natasha didn’t have on _her_ phone.

They finish their coffees but Peggy goes back up to the counter to buy bagels for the three of them because, according to her “Bread fixes everything”, even the most grueling of hangovers. They talk about the next few weeks of school, about how they can’t wait until Thanksgiving break, when they can all go home, see their families, and breathe. Peggy, whose parents have recently relocated to upstate New York, is more than excited to go home. She tells Steve that she plans to come visit his mother, whom she hasn’t seen since they graduated from high school. Steve knows that his mom will be thrilled—of all the people in his life, she loves Peggy the most.

For a split second, Steve wonders what Sarah would think of Bucky.

When the girls leave, Steve stays in the café, at the table. He pulls out his sketchbook and quickly starts to draw something that’s been stuck in his head since last night. Or this morning. He can’t tell anymore. Everything is sharp angles and rough edges—grasping and clutching—and when he finally finishes the simple sketch, he sighs at himself.

The last five pages of his sketchbook are nothing but Bucky: his jaw, his mouth—smiling—his hands, the way they clutch at the air when he tries to pluck out the words. Steve will admit to himself, and only to himself, that this crush is a little more than he bargained for, and that it is taking up more space in his sketchbook than he planned.

Still, he finishes the sketch. Bucky’s hands, again, grasping at the open air. Steve tucks the drawing away and thinks that maybe, somewhere down the line, he’ll actually show them to Bucky. Maybe.

At 3:45, Steve buys another cup of coffee and heads over to Bucky’s dorm. He finds the brunet behind the front desk, his hair pulled up into a messy, high bun. The dark circles under his eyes are worrying, but when he sees Steve, he beams and the dark circles seem to disappear. Bucky’s smile is infectious; before he knows it, Steve is grinning too. He passes Bucky the cup of coffee and when he takes it, their fingers brush.

“You’ve got your good moments, you know?” Bucky greets him, taking a sip from the cup even though the coffee is piping hot.

Steve’s eyebrows go up. “Are you saying I have bad moments?”

“I mean usually you’re pretty angry and dissatisfied,” Bucky jokes. “But today you’re all happy and bringin’ me coffee.”

An eye roll ensues. “I brought you coffee because I know for a fact you didn’t sleep,” Steve challenges. “Am I wrong?”

Bucky smirks, eyeing Steve knowingly. “Are you ever?” His eyes close when he sips the coffee and Steve thinks about drawing that. When Bucky smiles up at him, smiling with his whole mouth, Steve thinks about drawing that, too. Steve isn’t smiling and Bucky notices, sees him watching. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve answers. “Still pretty tired, majorly hungover,” he admits—it’s the truth.

Steve catches a look of pity crossing Bucky’s face. “You didn’t have to come—you probably should’ve stayed in bed.”

“I wanted to hang out with you,” Steve assures. “I’ll be fine. Nothing some water can’t fix.”

Bucky checks the time. “I’ll be done in three minutes—we’ll make sure to get you hydrated, pal.”

And he does. Once they’re upstairs in Bucky’s room, he makes Steve drink a whole bottle of water and then gives him a bottle of Gatorade. As they study, he reminds Steve to take a drink every so often.

Steve helps Bucky go through his O-Chem flash cards. Some of the words are difficult to pronounce, but after going through the flashcards twice, Steve gets the hang of it.

“Absolute zero.”

Bucky stares up at the ceiling, lying across his bed. He taps his pen against the wall and sighs to himself. Steve sits beside him, legs hanging over the edge of the bed, holding about sixty flash cards in his hands.

“Lowest temperature on the Kelvin scale?”

“Good—but what else?” Steve prompts. Bucky looks up at him, confused. “What happens to the molecules?”

“ _Oh_ —they stop moving, completely.”

“Good—nonpolar covalent bond.”

Bucky groans, tapping his pen against his forehead now. “I don’t know this one.”

“C’mon, you know this one. You got it last time.”

“Barely,” he whines. Steve rolls his eyes and firmly repeats the term. Bucky sighs, closing his eyes to think. “Is it the one…when the electrons are shared? Wait—yeah, it’s the one when the electrons get shared equally between the atoms! Right? I’m right?”

Steve smiles at Bucky’s enthusiasm, nodding. “You’re right.”

Bucky touches his middle finger to his tongue and then touches a space in the air, making a sizzling sound.

“I’m on fire!” he cheers. Steve can’t help but laugh. But laughing, unfortunately, brings pain to his still throbbing head. Bucky, noticing Steve’s immediate change in demeanor, frowns. “What’s the matter? Headache?” Steve nods.

Immediately, Bucky crawls out of bed, careful not to jostle the bed. He goes into his and Bruce’s shared bathroom and Steve hears him rummaging through the cabinets, shaking pill bottle after pill bottle. Seconds later, he returns with two orange pills in hand, stands in front of Steve, and pushes the pills toward him.

“Ibuprofen—take them with the Gatorade.”

“Thanks, mom.” Steve teases.

Bucky laughs and shakes his head as Steve takes the pills. However, as soon as Steve’s swallowed them down, Bucky reaches out and places two fingers against each of Steve’s temples. He comes closer, leaning against the bed, between Steve’s legs. Steve doesn’t even have time to react because once Bucky’s fingers are firmly pressed against his temples, all of the tension leaves his body and he finds himself leaning into Bucky’s touch.

“Pressure points,” Bucky speaks in a soft voice. “Headache gone?” Steve nods; Bucky smirks. “You gonna call me ‘mom’ again?” Laughing, Steve shakes his head.

Yet again, he finds his eyes wandering, this time to Bucky’s lips. And as soon as he looks, Bucky’s licking them. Steve leans toward Bucky just an inch, but he stops himself. He hesitates. He knows that he wants to kiss Bucky, but is this okay? Is it allowed? Sure, it happened last night, but they were both drunk last night, and drunk people do drunk things that they end up regretting in the morning. Now they’re sober and Steve is stopping himself, wondering if things are still the same.

“Were you—were you about to do what I hope you were about to do?” Bucky asks, watching Steve closely with curiosity in his gaze. His fingers are still at Steve’s temples, blessing him with a blissful reprieve. “You stopped.”

“Are things okay, though?” Steve asks. “Because I know…well, last night—this morning, whatever—we weren’t exactly sober, so...” He shrugs. “I don’t want to do anything until I’m sure. Until you’re sure.”

“Listen, you ain’t askin’ me to marry you,” Bucky jokes, laughing. “It doesn’t have to be complicated, does it?”

“I would prefer if it wasn’t,” Steve answers.

“Good,” Bucky breathes, almost relieved. “’Cause…well, all I know right now is that I like you. A lot. And that we’re alone, no one is watching, and that I kinda wanna kiss you right now. That’s not too complicated, is it?”

Steve smiles, biting his bottom lip. “No, that’s not complicated at all.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“… Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you kiss me now?”

Steve answers by placing his hands on Bucky’s waist and straightening his own spine so that he’s tall enough to reach Bucky’s mouth. Steve closes his eyes and feels Bucky’s hands traveling already, reaching behind him to cradle the back of his head gently, holding him firm. Bucky’s mouth is bitter and strong, like black coffee; his hands are calloused and rough against the tender skin of Steve’s neck, but something about that makes him want more—more of Bucky’s hands touching him, all over. Steve’s hands move from Bucky’s waist, up his chest. He can feel his muscles underneath, firm and chiseled, He wants to slide his hands underneath Bucky’s shirt to know what his skin feels like, but he doesn’t. Instead, he trails his hands up, lacing them behind Bucky’s neck, pulling him down further.

Bucky wraps Steve up in his arms, pulling the smaller boy closer and setting himself fixed between Steve’s legs. Steve notices that his kiss is more deliberate than before, more determined, more intentional. He doesn’t rush like he did at the party, or at Steve’s door. Now, Bucky takes his time tasting every inch of Steve’s mouth, even kissing the corners for good measure. He rakes his fingers through Steve’s hair, running them back and forth, up and down, as he kisses him until their mouths are sore.

The only thing that stops him is the sound of the door unlocking. They both gasp, pulling away from one another in an instant. Steve picks up the scattered flash cards from the bed and Bucky sits beside him, cross legged, hands between his legs like a child. When Bruce comes inside—dragging his feet and the rest of his body—his eyes are on them immediately.

“Hey, guys,” he says in a slow, awkward greeting.

“We’re studying.” Bucky blurts out, stumbling over his words.

Bruce closes the door behind him and smiles, nodding slowly. “That’s good,” he answers, with raised eyebrows. He picks up his shower caddy from underneath his desk, grabs a change of clothes from his dresser, salutes Steve and Bucky with two fingers, and then shuffles into the bathroom. When the water from the shower starts running, Steve and Bucky dissolve into laughter on the bed.

“Does he—he knows, right?” Steve laughs, covering his mouth.

Bucky is lying down again, on his back, laughing with his hands over his stomach. “That I like guys? Yeah. He knows.” Bucky reaches up and shoves Steve’s shoulder gently, getting his attention again. “He knows I like you, too,” he grins and takes Steve’s hand, pulling him forward and down. “C’mere.”

Steve doesn’t know how long Bruce’s shower will last, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that Bucky is kissing him again, his heart is beating like crazy, and that sometimes the thrill of a secret is enough to get him going.

Fifteen minutes later, when the water stops, they separate and go back to the flash cards. Bruce comes back out, all changed and clean, albeit still exhausted. He lies down in his bed, across the room, and groans.

“I drank half a handle of vodka by myself,” he announces.

Bucky looks up from his notes and grins. “And you’re still alive? Go you.”

Bruce recalls his night, sharing his stories about his Halloween filled with Drunk D&D. Bucky’s talking to Bruce, giving him his full attention, but his fingers are tracing patterns on the small of Steve’s back, where Bruce can’t see. Steve is doing everything in his power not to squirm. He watches Bucky, listens to him speak, and everything he does—every move he makes—is a catalyst for Steve’s arousal. If he could kiss this man _all_ day, he would.

To distract himself, Steve opens his phone and starts scrolling through Instagram. However, as soon as he opens it, he gets two rapid texts from Peggy.

The first one is a picture of his “Nudist on Strike” sign, wedged between Peggy’s bed and her nightstand.

The second text simply reads:

_(6:03) What did you do and who did you do it with and DID YOU KILL MY JEWELRY RACK??_

He will probably have to apologize for that sooner than later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the comments y'all leave literally brighten my day.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> constantly ignoring actual responsibilities to write this fic.

Peggy’s futon is a lot less comfortable than it looks.

Steve would’ve much rather have spent the night in his own bed, but when Sam _so_ kindly asked him if he could have the room for the night, he didn’t have the heart so say no. After living with each other for nearly four months, Sam had never asked to have the room to himself. Steve has noticed that T’Challa and Sam have long since passed “talking” into something serious. Steve wasn’t surprised when Sam asked for the room, and he didn’t complain once. He texted Peggy that same day and asked if he could stay over. She said yes, of course, and they stayed up all Monday night watching Disney movies together with Peggy’s roommate, Angie, who’s just as much of a Disney enthusiast.

However, when it was time to go to sleep, Steve found out just how awfully uncomfortable her futon is. According to Angie, the couch in the living room  isn’t any better—so Steve took his chances with the futon in Peggy’s room. He spent the night tossing and turning, trying to avoid the obtrusive bar so that he could sleep peacefully

At eight, when Peggy’s alarm goes off, Steve questions whether or not he’d slept at all.

Peggy— who's never been a morning person—peels herself out of bed with a groan. She mutters a low ‘good morning’ to Steve, who only nods in her direction. He still remembers what it was like to deal with her in the morning, and he knows better than to say words to her before 8am. She shuffles her way to the bathroom and Steve sighs, resting his head on the pink pillow she’d given him. He grabs his phone from the other side of the futon and unlocks it, checking his texts. The only text he has is from Wanda, and it’s saddening.

_(7:30) We have a test today. I am hoping that you studied—I am praying that you studied._

Of course, he hadn’t.

Steve doesn’t even panic. He sighs, pulls himself up from the futon, and buries his face in his hands. It’s barely November, with less than six weeks left in the semester, and Steve’s motivation is waning. The only thing standing between him and Thanksgiving break are a few more grueling weeks and a couple of projects— he can almost _taste_ it. Until then— and frankly, until Winter Break, Steve knows that he’s going to have to bite the bullet. So, while Peggy’s in the bathroom, doing whatever it is that she does in there, Steve pulls his Spanish notebook from his backpack and starts cramming.

Half an hour later, Peggy emerges from her bathroom, in a white, terrycloth robe, with her hair wet and hanging at her shoulders.

“Good morning,” she mumbles, plopping down at her desk. She opens a drawer and pulls out a huge, red bag.

“Morning,” Steve greets her. He watches as she unzips the red bag and pulls out handfuls of make-up. She sets it out in front of her, very organized, and pulls out a circular vanity mirror, setting it on top of the desk.

Steve watches, mesmerized, as she applies creams and powders to her skin, covering up her barely noticeable blemishes, coloring it flawless. He remembers watching her like this, years ago. On lazy Saturday mornings, when her parents let him sleep over—not in her room, of course—and he’d come in just to watch her. It’s mesmerizing, the way that the brushes gloss over her skin, the way that the lipstick paints her mouth a dazzling ruby red. Her eyeliner is always perfect, a winged masterpiece. Aside from Natasha, Steve had never known a woman to be this perfect.

“You know, you’re really beautiful,” Steve says, completely forgetting that he’s speaking out loud.

Peggy turns to him, mid-application of her lipstick, and she laughs.

“You’ll never change,” she grins.

Steve shrugs, aimlessly flipping through his Spanish notes. “Probably not.” Peggy continues with her lipstick, leaning in closer to the mirror. Steve clears his throat, still flipping through the notebook but not reading any of the words he’d written down. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“…so, what’s going on with you and Nat?” Peggy pauses for a moment, capping the lipstick and setting it on the desk. “I thought she and Clint…?”

“It’s complicated,” Peggy sighs, shrugging. “Natasha is… complicated.” She picks up her mascara and fiddles with the top. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

Steve quickly shakes his head. “Not at all! It’s just… I didn’t expect it?”

“I was going to tell you,” she sighs. “It just sort of happened, you know?”

Steve nods. He knows exactly what that’s like.

“Yeah, I get it.” He flips another page. “So…are you…?”

“I don’t know,” Peggy sighs again, this time more tired than before. “It’s all so…tiring to think about. This isn’t the first time…with a girl, you know. I spent a lot of time in Europe—things happened. Then, I came back and I thought that things would be different. That I would feel different.” Again, Peggy shrugs. “So, the jury’s still out.”

Steve smiles, closing the notebook finally. “I understand,” he tells her. “As long as you’re happy.”

Nodding, Peggy begins to apply mascara to her lashes, carefully lifting the brush against the delicate hairs.

“Can I ask you a question, Steve?”

“Go for it.”

“Are you… _seeing_ _someone_?” She questions. “I only ask because…well—Steven, I’ll be quite frank: your sign was practically wedged against my mattress and that only happens one of two ways. And you weren’t in bed with me, so.”

Steve is frozen, feeling stuck. He glances around the room, everywhere except directly into Peggy’s eyes. He opens his mouth but closes it, thinking against what he wants to say. Steve stares down at the blue notebook in his hands.

“I… I wouldn’t call it that,” he says. He can’t call it that. Seeing someone would indicate that he was actually doing things… things like going out on dates, or something. Casually making out in Bucky’s room a few times a week— and on weekends too, if he’s being honest—didn’t constitute as _seeing_ him, right? “I don’t know—how did you…?”

“You also broke my jewelry rack, if you remember,” Peggy tells him. “Can I ask who it is?”

“You can ask, but I can’t tell you.”

“Do I know them?”

“You know a lot of people, Pegs.”

“You’re being particularly evasive.” Peggy swipes the mascara brush along her other eye and sighs. “I’m sure it’ll come to light sooner or later.”

Steve shrugs. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Peggy laughs but she doesn’t push any further. Steve is relieved because he isn’t sure if he could come up with any more elusive quips to stave her off. In any other case, he’d be open about this. However, he’s doing his best to respect Bucky’s privacy; besides, it’s nothing serious.

Together, Peggy and Steve get breakfast on campus. They take the shuttle from Peggy’s apartment to the east side of campus. The East Cafeteria, Steve finds, doesn’t have half as good as a selection as the West Cafeteria. He’s settles for an oversized waffle, fluffy eggs, and a glass of orange juice that unfortunately still has pulp. It’s nine fifteen, and Peggy has class at ten, so they eat quickly; Steve’s only class is Spanish, which isn’t until the afternoon—he has plenty of time to kill. As they eat, Peggy chats on and off about her plans for next semester, and possibly studying abroad for part of the semester, and taking on a part-time internship in the city for the second half. Steve is almost envious of her because she has everything so planned out.

Since he still hasn’t declared a major, Steve has no idea what to do. He’s well overdue for a chat with his advisor, especially about potentially declaring a major, and possibly about taking some classes during the summer to get caught up and on track. However, Steve is too busy as it is—his first semester of college classes has been overwhelming, to say the least. Maybe if he had a major and an actual plan, he’d feel better about all this, but right now, listening to Peggy just makes him feel lost and ungrounded.

When they part, Steve heads back to his dorm. It’s nearing ten in the morning. He knows that Sam had ROTC that morning at five, so if he’s in the room, he should be wide awake and getting ready for class. However, when Steve enters the dorm, he’s mildly surprised to find both Sam and T’Challa sitting on the futon, watching a documentary on the Discovery Channel, both eating bowls of Fruity Pebbles.

“Mornin’!” Sam cheerfully greets Steve.

T’Challa nods in Steve’s direction, a calm smile on his face. “Nice to see you, Steve.”

Steve drops his backpack near his desk. “Good to see you too, man.” He glances at the television, chuckling lightly. “Is this what you guys do in the morning? Watch documentaries?”

“They’re educational,” Sam and T’Challa speak in unison, and then laugh at one another. Steve has to refrain from rolling his eyes because, _god_ they actually _are_ perfect for one another, and it’s ridiculous.

“Speaking of educational,” T’Challa begins. “I am on the executive board for SAFE, and we are having an info session tonight, trying to bring in some fresh faces and new members. I think you should come—also, there will be pizza. I’ve learned that people here really love pizza.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “What time?”

“Nine tonight. We try to accommodate everyone’s schedules.”

“I went last week and it was great.” Sam offers. “Also, free food. Free food is a major perk.”

Steve nods. “Yeah, I’ll definitely come. I’ve been meaning to go all semester, but I just got so busy—I’d be glad to come.”

T’Challa grins. “Bring a friend, if you can.”

Steve can only think of one person.

He doubts that Bucky would want to go. He goes out on a limb and texts him anyway.

Steve leaves the two of them in the room when he goes to shower. He takes his clothes to the bathroom with him, just in case T’Challa is still there when he gets out. Steve stays in the shower longer than usual, procrastinating. After twenty minutes, when his skin is pale and pruned, Steve gets out of the shower, gets dressed, and reluctantly returns to his Spanish coursework. He goes through all his notes, reacquaints himself with the textbook, and even goes through the flashcards that Wanda so kindly made for him.

At two, when Steve gets to class, Wanda is waiting for him near their usual seats.

“Did you study?” She asks.

“All morning.”

“Only this morning?”

“… I studied, alright?”

Wanda sighs, gently shoving Steve’s shoulder. “You procrastinated.”

“It was an accident!” Steve exclaims. “Also, I…sort of forgot.”

“How can you forget about a whole test, Steve?”

Admittedly, Steve has been a little more than distracted. He can’t tell Wanda that he’s been spending far more than half his time with Bucky, and that he’s been too busy _thinking_ about him to focus on anything academic. Steve never thought he’d be this person—the person who gets a crush and forgets everything else. He annoys himself with it on the daily basis, but when Bucky texts him in the middle of the day and asks ‘ _do you want to come over and hang out?’_ how can he say no? He doesn’t have enough self-restraint to say no. Once he starts thinking about Bucky’s mouth, and how soft his lips are, and how much he _needs_ to be kissing him, it’s all downhill from there.

“Steve, did you hear me?” Wanda asks.

Steve blinks twice, quickly shaking his head. “Sorry—what was that?”

“I asked you how you could forget about a whole test! You’re so— how do you say it— _spaced out_?” She tilts her head, watching him. “Where did your mind go?”

“I’m just having a little trouble concentrating—I’m fine, it’s fine,” he quickly assures her.

Thankfully, their professor comes into the lecture hall. She’s already speaking in Spanish and Steve struggles to understand. He gets most of it—something about exam, pencil, and five minutes. Steve assumes that means they have five minutes to study, and from the looks of every student tearing through notes and flashcards, he assumes he’s right.

The exam takes up all of the class period. Those who finish early leave early. Steve, on the other hand, stays right up until the last minute. Wanda pats Steve on the back and whispers, _‘do your best’_ before she leaves. When the timer goes off, signifying the end of class, Steve turns in his exam and rushes out of the room so that he can finally breathe. He doesn’t think that he did too badly, but the test definitely took all of the brainpower he had left.

Just as he leaves the building, his phone begins to vibrate rhythmically in his pocket. He answers the phone immediately.

“Ma?”

“Steve, honey. When are you coming home?”

Steve’s shoulders relax at the sound of his mother’s voice, even though she’s not all that happy.

“A few weeks, Ma.”

“That’s such a long time,” she sighs. “Are you okay? Did I call at a bad time?”

“It’s okay,” Steve tells her. “You called at a great time. I just got out of an exam that I didn’t completely fail.”

“Was it Spanish?” Sarah asks. “Your father and I were always terrible at Spanish.”

“Dad was terrible at any language other than English.”

“He was terrible at that too—couldn’t pass an English class to save his life,” Sarah laughs and Steve laughs along with her. “I just miss you so much, kid. It’s so good to hear your voice.”

Steve smiles, heading away from the building. “I miss you too, Ma.” He sighs. “I’ve got so much to tell you.”

**______________________________________________________________**

Bucky tells himself that he’ll stop after this.

It’s a bad habit that he picked up while dating his ex, and he’s meant to stop for months, but when his anxiety gets the best of him, it’s hard to come down. Bucky taps the top of the cigarette box against the palm of his hand, sighing to himself. He’s cursing himself for walking out early, but he couldn’t stand another minute of being in that classroom. Listening to his professor drone on about all the things that Bucky already learned last semester is not only annoying but also anxiety-inducing. On top of that, when he woke up this morning and looked at his grades, they were less than desirable. Therefore, his morning is off to a rough start.

Bucky stands in the shade, on the side of the building, leaning against the old brick. He opens the box and pulls out a cigarette. Then, he starts to search his shorts for a lighter. He can’t find one in his pockets, so then he searches his backpack— no sign of one. Frustrated, Bucky tucks the cigarette behind his ear and keeps looking, tearing through his things.

“Hey, man.”

Bucky looks up and finds Clint standing to the side of him. He hadn’t even heard him coming.

“Hey, Clint.”

“What are you doing?” Clint asks, motioning toward the books and binders strewn around Bucky.

Bucky lifts the box of cigarettes. “Making bad choices,” he admits. “Got a lighter?”

“Yeah,” Clint pulls a purple lighter right out of his left pocket. “Can I bum one off you?”

Bucky nods and hands Clint the whole box. Somewhere in his mind, he hopes Clint keeps it. “Nat hates this— she wants me to stop. Old habits die hard, I guess.”

As Bucky uses Clint’s lighter to spark his cigarette, he glances over at him. “I hope you don’t mind me asking but, are you guys a thing?”

Clint shrugs. “It’s not exclusive—it’s complicated,” he says. “She’s still up my ass twenty-four-seven about all my terrible choices though, so we might as well be.”

Bucky nods, taking a slow drag from the cigarette. Once the smoke hits his lungs, he has the urge to cough, but he suppresses it. It’s what he gets for smoking—he told Sam he would stop, too. He’ll have to apologize for that, eventually. His parents don’t know that he’s ever smoked, and they’d probably kill him if they did—they’re no-nonsense about unhealthy habits. Bucky closes his eyes, gently shaking his free hand, nervously tapping it against his leg. He’s got nothing to be nervous about, but his brain won’t stop racing and he can’t seem to calm down.

“You alright, man?”

“Yeah.”

Bucky gives the lighter back to Clint, who’s eyeing him suspiciously.

“That sounds fake,” he says. “You’re shaking like a leaf, bro.” Bucky takes a deep breath, not knowing what exactly he should say. It’s obvious that he’s having a hard time, but he’s decidedly shit at voicing that. “Hey, I’m a real good listener— when I’m wearing my hearing aids—so seriously, you can talk to me.”

“You wear hearing aids?”

“Yeah, since I was a kid,” Clint answers. “So yeah, you know. I’m like a vault. Whatever goes in, stays in.”

Bucky tries to smile and shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” he says. “I just…well, I’m repeatin’ this class ‘cause I flunked out last year. I’m repeating a lot of classes. And I—so I have anxiety? And it was hard sitting in there and listening to the same thing over and over again, you know? Plus, bad morning. So.”

“I get that,” Clint tells Bucky. “Do you take anything for your anxiety?”

“No,” Bucky admits. “I mean. I run? I work out?”

“Do you have anyone you talk to?” Clint asks. “Anyone who can like, make you feel better?”

Bucky’s mind goes to Steve. He’s been trying—all morning—to keep his mind off of him, because lately he’s all Bucky can think about. It’s not on purpose, his mind just always seems to travel to Steve.

Bucky gives a half shrug. “Not really.” He takes another drag from the cigarette and waves his hand dismissively. “I’m usually fine.”

Clint nods. He doesn’t push the subject. He tucks his cigarette between his index and middle fingers.

“You should probably stop smoking—I heard that doesn’t help,” Clint chuckles and Bucky laughs right along with him. “You should probably try smoking something a little different.”

“Do you?” Bucky questions.

“From time to time,” Clint glances over at him. “You?”

“Sometimes,” Bucky shrugs again. “One of my brothers is a total stoner. Sometimes he shares.”

Clint nods. “You should hang out with me more often—I make killer brownies.”

Bucky pauses for a moment, letting his hand fall to his side. “Does Steve…y’know?”

Clint laughs a little. “That’s a good question. He ate one of my brownies once and I’m pretty sure he almost died, but like, in a good way,” Clint shrugs. “I dunno—I’m sure you could ask him.”

Coincidentally, as soon as Bucky asks about Steve, he gets a text from him.

_Pixie Stick_

_(10:15) hey so T’Challa (do you know him? I’m sure you know him) just invited me to the SAFE meeting tonight. I was wondering if you’d wanna come with me? I know you said you went before, with one of you residents, as an ally. So you can totally come as an ally. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. If you don’t wanna come that’s cool too, I just thought I’d ask! : )_

Steve’s text incites a whole new wave of panic that Bucky’s not ready to unpack. He locks his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket.

“Hey, if you ever wanna chill sometime, you should let me know. Are we friends on Facebook?”

The two of them quickly exchange information. When classes let out, they snub their cigarettes and toss them. Bucky tells Clint to keep the whole pack.

On the way to his next class, Bucky revisits Steve’s text. His stomach feels like lead when he reads it. His eyes gloss over the word “ally” over and over again, and it makes his chest feel tight. He’s been to these meetings before, and he’s always gone as support, always as an ally. But he doesn’t _want_ to go as an ally-- he never has. When he was an RA, he had always wished he could be as open and honest as the residents he went with. He always sat back, quiet and observant, giving no indication that he wanted to participate or join, giving no indication that he was just like everyone else in the room.

But that was last year and, above all else, Bucky wants this year to be different. So, as he enters his Biology lab, he shoots Steve a text.

_(10:45) sure thing but its dollar drink night at double zero so u gotta come w/me if i go 2 this meeting ok my brother works there i’ll make sure u dnt get carded_

Steve texts him back almost immediately.

_(10:46) sounds like a plan. See you tonight!!_

Some kind of strange relief starts to build in Bucky’s chest. It’s been almost three months since Bucky met Steve Rogers, two weeks since the first time that he kissed him, and Bucky’s chest still flutters when he thinks about him. If asked about his feelings by anyone besides Bruce, he’d deny them completely; feelings are just not a part of the image he worked so hard to create. However, it’s getting pretty hard to mask what he’s feeling for Steve, because Bucky feels like it’s building all the time. Bucky’s found himself inviting Steve over almost every other day this week, sometimes to study but mostly to make out. It hasn’t gone any further than that and Steve hasn’t pushed for more. For a guy who hasn’t been touched in over two years, Steve’s really good at controlling himself. Sometimes, Bucky wishes he wasn’t. Sometimes, he wishes Steve would just say that he wanted to take it to the next step. Bucky would probably say yes; he’s way more into this kid than he thought he’d ever be, and it’s terribly difficult for him to think rationally with Steve’s mouth is on his.

He wants to take things slow—he does. He needs to. But sometimes, when Steve’ s kissing him like he does, Bucky’s body just wants what it wants. Thankfully, he’s exceptionally skilled at hiding it. Bucky tries to stop thinking about all of this when he sits down for class.

The Biology lab takes forever. Bucky’s professor talks at the speed of molasses and the class is even more boring than he remembered from the semester before. Bucky does his best to hide the fact that he’s texting Steve when he should be working. His lab partner, Jane, has to elbow him every now and then when their professor gets close as he circulates the room. He manages to only get caught once.

After class, Bucky has a half an hour break for lunch, and then he’s right back at it, into his second Chemistry class. Bucky enjoys this class a lot more because it’s something new, and it’s something that he actually understands. His professor is animated, she’s enthusiastic, and she’s a lot better at showing up at her office hours, which Bucky regularly frequents. She’s helpful and understanding of Bucky’s situation, and the fact that he’s taking eighteen credit hours because he can’t afford to take any less if he wants to graduate on time, with a GPA that will actually get him into med school. So whenever he goes to her office, she’s always willing to help.

When Bucky’s last class ends at 3:45, he goes back to his dorm and goes straight to the front desk, where he’s scheduled to work from 4 until 8:30. Bucky uses his time wisely, catching up on his work instead of watching Netflix, like most of the other desk clerks. He saves that for the four to eight shifts in the morning, when no one is around and he won’t be disturbed. The shift moves along easily, with no real issues, aside from the usual lost-key-replacement. Bucky gets quite a bit done and at the end of his shift, he’s surprised to see Steve walking through the sliding doors.

Bucky won’t admit what that does to his chest.

“I didn’t know you were coming here,” Bucky tells him.

Steve grins, handing Bucky a bottle of water. “Well I didn’t want you to have to walk alone. Also, since it’s dollar drink night—here. Wouldn’t want you to get a hangover.”

Bucky laughs, uncapping the bottle. “You’re so thoughtful... when you’re not being a punk.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’m in a good mood,” Steve jokes, still grinning at Bucky. “Hey, be totally transparent with me, alright?” Steve says, watching Bucky carefully. “Are you one-hundred percent okay with going tonight? I will not be offended if you don’t want to, I swear.”

If they weren’t at the front desk, Bucky would kiss Steve, right this instant.

“I’m good, promise,” Bucky replies. “I’m…a little nervous? But like—it’s a good nervous, y’know? I—well I’m glad I’m going with you, is all.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “Last call.”

“I’m not gonna bail on you,” Bucky promises. He gathers all of his things from behind the desk. “I’m good.”

He drops his backpack off in his room before they leave. The whole walk there, Bucky wants to reach out and take Steve’s hand like he does when they’re alone, but the campus is too full and he’s just too scared to do it out in the open. He’s beating himself up, telling himself that if he were brave, he could do it. His fingers fidget and tingle as he shoves them deep into the pockets of his cargo shorts, just imagining what he’d give to be courageous enough to hold this kid’s hand in public. Steve doesn’t seem to notice, nor does he seem to mind, the lack of hand holding. But every so often, as they walk, he brushes his shoulder against Bucky’s arm, and steals glances at him, even smiles sometimes. It’s the smile that gets Bucky—always his smile.

He keeps his mind on that smile as they enter the SAFE meeting.

When they walk in together, Bucky is relieved to find that there are far less people than he’d expected. He counts fifteen, maybe sixteen people around the room, all chatting and mingling, none sitting in the chairs facing the board. Bucky glances toward the front of the room, where four people are standing, talking in a group. He notices T’Challa, Sam’s…friend. Bucky thinks to say hi but he doesn’t know the guy well enough to do that. He squints his eyes for a moment, trying to get a good look at one of them, a younger guy. The black teen turns and his eyes meet Bucky’s; in that instant, a wide grin breaks across his face and he leaves his group behind, heading straight for Bucky.

 _“James?”_ he exclaims. “Hey!”

Bucky takes a step forward and catches the kid as he hugs him full on, patting him on the back.

“Hey, Miles—it’s been forever!”

Miles pulls back, still grinning. “What are you _doing_ here, dude?”

Bucky freezes, snapping his mouth shut, unsure of what to say. He looks to Steve, wide-eyed and frantic.

“He’s here for me,” Steve smiles, that same dazzling smile that always charms everyone around him, _especially_ Bucky. “This is my first meeting—I asked if he’d come with me. Didn’t wanna come alone, you know?”

Miles nods, clapping his hand against Bucky’s bicep. “Definitely. He did the same thing for me, last year. It was my freshman year, and I was so scared to come by myself.  But this guy? Came with me to the first three meetings of the year. Best RA I’ve ever had.”

“C’mon, man.” Bucky shakes his head. He doesn’t feel like he deserves the praise—he doesn’t.

Miles shakes his head. “No, seriously dude—you’re the only reason I even came here. You’re like, the _only_ reason I came out. For real!” Miles exclaims. He turns to Steve then. “James helped me a lot last year…he helped me come out and everything, and helped me when my parents pretty much put me out—this guy practically saved my life.”

Eyes wide, Bucky takes a deep breath. He hadn’t expected Miles to say that—hell, he hadn’t expected any of this. He remembers last year, remembers all of the turmoil that he had to go through, remembers struggling to finish the semester and do his job, while trying to balance his crumbling relationship and personal life. Sure, Bucky remembers when Miles came out to him, and he remembers talking him through it, giving him advice that Bucky himself would never take, and watching Miles act with courage that Bucky would never have. He remembers.

“I was just—I just wanted you to be okay, y’know? It was my job to make sure you were alright.”

Miles shakes his head. “You did way more than just your job, man.” Abruptly, the group at the front of the room calls Miles’ name and waves him back up to the front. “Okay, we’re gonna start the meeting—but listen, I’m glad you’re here, and glad you’re still doing this, helping people. You’re awesome.” He pats Bucky’s shoulder one last time before he leaves, heading back up to the front.

Bucky is dazed as Steve leads them to a set of seats at the back of the room. He replays what Miles said, over and over again like a record in his mind.

He feels Steve’s hand on his forearm. Bucky glances at him and finds a warm, thoughtful smile on his face.

“You must’ve been a really great RA,” Steve says. “He seemed like he really liked you—you must’ve helped him so much.”

Bucky shrugs. “I—the thing is, I don’t feel like I did? I mean…I talked to him, I came here with him, you know? And when all that stuff happened with his family…I was there because he was a first-year and I was his RA.”

“You didn’t have to do any of that, though,” Steve cuts in. “Literally, you could’ve just sent him to get a counselor or something. You could’ve pushed it off, let him deal with it on his own—you didn’t. You cared—you helped.” Steve gives Bucky’s hand a quick squeeze, sighing. “You’re a good person.”

Bucky ducks his head, hiding his timid smile. “Thanks, Steve.” He doesn’t know if he believes that, but it sure does sound true when Steve says it.

The meeting begins and the exec board introduces themselves. Apparently, Miles is the president, to which Bucky finds amazing. He remembers when that kid was afraid to say the words “I’m gay” and he remembers empathizing with Miles because he too had been afraid to say it. Sometimes, he still is. Sometimes he wants to say it, to yell and scream it, but the fear is too strong, having too tight a hold on his throat. Watching Miles at the front of the room only worsens this desire. Sitting there with Steve right beside him does the same.

Bucky tries to focus, listens to the rest of the board members introduce themselves; they share their own different identities and pronouns, referencing an oversized chart that lists all the different terms. T’Challa, the guy who Bucky should probably get to know, leads the meeting. He talks to the group about intersectionality and diversity, and even has a fancy Prezi to go with it. Eventually, the whole meeting turns into a roundtable discussion. Bucky sits back and observes, unsure of what to say or do, but Steve’s hand shoots up every five minutes. He’s excited and bursting with questions that need answered. Bucky admires Steve’s curiosity—he himself has always been too scared to ask questions, too scared that he’d mess up, say the wrong thing, or say something dumb. But all of Steve’s questions are amazing—he’s amazing. He’s smart, inquisitive, and completely unafraid to voice his opinion—it’s absolutely endearing.

As the discussion dies down, pizza arrives. Steve offers to go grab a few slices for himself and for Bucky, and he leaves Bucky at the seats. However, moments after Steve leaves, T’Challa comes and takes his seat.

“James, right?” T’Challa extends his hand toward Bucky. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

“You can call me Bucky—all my friends call me Bucky,” He smiles. “Nice to meet you too.”

“I appreciate you being here, tonight. We were hoping for a crowd about this size.”

Bucky lifts his shoulder in a half-shrug. “Yeah, I’m—I’m mostly here for Steve.” He says. T’Challa’s brow rises.

“Mostly?”

Bucky clears his throat and tucks a stray hair behind his right ear. “Mostly.”

T’Challa nods, smiling. “It’s good to have you here. I hope you enjoyed it.”

Steve returns with four slices of pizza. He greets T’Challa as he sits down on the other side of Bucky. Steve places the plate in Bucky’s lap and then takes a slice for himself, biting into it immediately.

“You actually brought a friend—I am very impressed, Steve.” T’Challa expresses.

Steve, mouth full of cheese, replies. “I don’t go back on my word.” he grins.

T’Challa sits with them for a while—he doesn’t eat any pizza, which Bucky finds odd—and he talks to them more about how he got into SAFE. He tells them that there aren’t many programs like this at any of the colleges back in his home, so he was thankful to find something like this when he came to the states. As he talks, Bucky really gets a feel for the guy and starts to get just why Sam likes him so much—they’re literally the same person. Sam is just as intelligent and just as passionate; it’s no wonder that they two of them clicked.

When the meeting ends, Bucky’s relief is bittersweet.

“Okay, are we still going downtown? I promised you I would go—I’m not backing out, even though it’s Tuesday, and we both should probably be, I don’t know, sleeping.”

Bucky rolls his eyes at Steve. “Sleep when you’re dead,” he says as he playfully elbows Steve. “It’s only like, ten fifteen. You’ll live.”

“I have Drawing tomorrow.”

“At like, ten in the morning! Chill out, grandpa.”

The streets are relatively empty, being that it’s Tuesday night. Bucky playfully tickles the inside of Steve’s palm as they walk, but he doesn’t hold his hand, even though he wants to. When he gets to the bar, they bypass the bouncer, who Bucky happens to know. Dernier is working the bar, just like Bucky knew he would be. He orders two tall beers for himself and Steve, and orders a shot for Steve to take after he’s finished his beer. Of course, it’s the pixie stick shot. Bucky will never admit that he likes ordering this shot for Steve because he likes the way his mouth tastes after he drinks it.

He watches Steve drink the beer, watches the froth meet his top lip, and wishes he could kiss it off.

“So this is what it’s like,” Steve says, wiping his mouth, much to Bucky’s dismay. “Tired college students at a bar on a Tuesday.”

“Actually, it’s _Turnt Tuesday,_ so nobody’s tired.”

“Please don’t ever say _turnt_ again.” Steve laughs. “Your frat is showing.”

“Maybe I was born with it.”

“You were born with some quality traits, and that is definitely not one of them.”

“What are they, then?” Bucky asked. “My quality traits.”

Steve picks up his beer immediately, strong arming it, guzzling down at least a third of it in four gulps. Bucky is impressed, to say the least. He smirks, leaning against the table, clutching his own drink.

“C’mon, Stevie, don’t be shy, now!”

“You still aren’t allowed to call me that.”

Again, Bucky rolls his eyes. “When will it be appropriate? I’m ready for the pet names.” He jokes, speaking in only a voice that Steve can hear. Through the dim lights of the bar, he still notices the blush forming at the base of Steve’s neck. “Kidding— I’m kidding!”

“You’re awful,” Steve mumbles, taking another drink.

“You still haven’t told me,” Bucky reiterates. “C’mon...I swear, I’m done being a jerk.”

“That’s doubtful.”

“Steve, seriously.” Bucky props his elbow up on the table and rests his chin in his hand. “Come on.”

Steve sighs, exasperated. “You know how I feel, you jerk—why do I need to tell you how great you are?”

“You think I’m great?” Bucky asks.

At this rate, Steve’s going to need another beer. “Of course I think you’re great. I wouldn’t, you know, feel the way I do if I didn’t think you were.”

Bucky smiles, sitting back in his seat. “I think you’re great too.” He admits. “You really…you really impressed me today. In the meeting, I mean. You asked so many good questions, and you’re super good at talking, and you—well, you really covered for me, with Miles.”

“I told the truth—you really were there for me,” Steve expresses, and Bucky drinks as he listens. “I think you’re a lot more supportive than you realize.”

Bucky watches Steve, watches his slender fingers curling around the base of the glass before he brings it up to his pink lips. He sips and he watches Bucky while he’s doing it, with a teasing smile behind the glass. Bucky groans, gripping the edge of the table. He leans forward and speaks below the volume of the music.

“I—I really, _really_ want to kiss you right now.”

Steve grins, setting his glass down. “Well, we both have to finish our beers.”

“They were one dollar—I literally do not care about these beers,” Bucky pauses, reconsidering. “Drink your shot, though.”

Dollar-Drink Night is short lived. Bucky nearly drags Steve out of the bar and they don’t even make it halfway down the street before he’s pulling Steve into an alley, asking him _‘Is this okay? Can I kiss you out here?’_  Steve says yes, he always says yes, and so Bucky’s mouth is on his. The alley is dark and free of traffic. Everyone’s too busy in the bar, getting drunk, and no one’s taking time to look down an empty dark alley to find two boys kissing.

His hands are on Steve’s waist, pulling him closer, even though it’s never close enough. Steve’s hands are in Bucky’s hair, gently gripping and tugging, and Bucky doesn’t know how to tell Steve that he really, really likes that. Steve’s mouth is sugary sweet, just like the shot he took, and Bucky finds himself running his tongue along Steve’s bottom lip, tasting the forgotten liquid, tasting Steve. He takes Steve’s bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling slowly, gently, basking in the soft sounds that escape Steve’s mouth when he does.

It’s always the sounds that Steve makes that get Bucky going; he is learning that Steve is not exactly the quietest person. Whenever they’re kissing, he’s always sighing, gasping, and breathing heavily. Bucky knows that when Steve is noisy, he must be doing something right, with his mouth, his hands, or both. It excites him, knowing that he’s doing the right thing, knowing that he’s able to bring Steve some sort of pleasure, just by kissing him in all the right ways.

Bucky slips one hand underneath Steve’s shirt, pressing his palm against the other boy’s side, stroking Steve’s skin with his thumb. He presses Steve against the wall, forever trying to close the imagined gap between them. Steve’s mouth is magnetic, drawing Bucky in, captivating him, capturing his lips and never letting go. His hands wander, traveling along Bucky’s back, his spine, and his hips. His body instantly reacts and he finds himself grinding his hips against Steve, hardening against Steve’s leg. Bucky stops himself immediately, not wanting to make Steve uncomfortable or push things too far. Especially not in an alley in the middle of the night. He knows that Steve can feel him, and he can feel Steve too, but that’s a bridge they haven’t crossed and probably should wait to cross, anyway.

Steve, breathing heavily, closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the brick wall behind him.

 _“Jesus,”_ he sighs, releasing a shuddery breath. He groans under his breath, adjusting himself through his jeans. Bucky pretends that he doesn’t see that. “I think I need another drink,” Steve laughs.

“You sounded so excited about sleep, earlier.” Bucky teases.

Steve looks up, smirking, gorgeous, and Bucky has to bite his own lip to keep from kissing Steve’s again.

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead, I guess.”

They do go back to the bar, and they do get more drinks. Bucky has far more to drink than Steve, leaving him mildly sauced and a lot more handsy than before. Steve, the responsible one, offers to walk Bucky home once they’re done.

Back at his dorm, in the empty hallway, Bucky kisses Steve again. And again. And again. He wants to open the door, to tell Steve to come in and stay over, for once. But he’s tipsy and he thinks, _maybe this is a bad idea_ and _maybe Steve doesn’t want that_ , and so he doesn’t ask. Steve goes back to his own dorm, leaving Bucky to his own devices.

He spends more than half of his night imagining what it would’ve been like to kiss Steve in his bed, all night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading--I can't wait to read the beautiful comments y'all leave!!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank-you to actualspacegrandm for being an amazing beta and helping make this fic even better. She is my muse and my savior.

“Bucky—are you even listening to me?”

He glances up, bacon still hanging from his mouth, to find Bruce staring. Bucky shoves the bacon into his mouth and grins charmingly.

“I was listening.”

“What did I say, then?”

“Something about run-on sentences?”

“Yeah, about three minutes ago,” Bruce frowns at Bucky disapprovingly. “It’s seven in the morning and I’m not doing this for my health.”

At 6:30 that morning, Bucky had all but shaken Bruce awake when he realized that the paper for his Biology course was due. The same paper that he’d haphazardly thrown together a few days ago, only to forget to edit it on time. His Bio professor always, without fail, took off massive amounts of points for misspellings and incorrect grammar, so if Bucky wanted to get a passing grade, he knew that he had to have someone else look it over. Usually, he would take his paper up to the writing commons and get help from one of the writing tutors, but lately, he’s been too distracted to remember things like that. So now, he sits with Bruce in the West Caf, being stared down over bacon and toast.

“Okay, I swear I’m listening.”

Bruce sighs and picks up his cup of black coffee, taking a long sip before he returns to the google doc with Bucky’s wreck of a paper. On his own screen, Bucky watches Bruce highlight a specific sentence.

“This is a run on. Fix it.” Bruce mutters, sipping his coffee again.

“Right. Got it.”

Inevitably, Bucky’s mind wanders again; staying on task has never been his strong suit. And when Steve sends him a good morning text, it gets even worse. He spends at least three minutes daydreaming about him, hugging him and kissing him. He's lost count of how many times he’s kissed Steve, and how many times he’s wanted to do so much more than that. But every time he’s gotten even remotely close, his nerves get the better of him, brain telling him to slow down and keep it to himself, because maybe he’s moving too fast, maybe Steve isn’t interested in that yet, and maybe they should just stick to kissing.

But Thanksgiving Break is quickly approaching, and there’s so much that Bucky wants to do before it arrives. He won’t admit it aloud, but he really hopes that this thing with Steve is going somewhere, because Steve is on his mind more often than not and he can’t imagine what he’d feel like if he learned that it was ending anytime soon. Bucky wracks his brain, trying to figure out what he could do to show Steve that he likes to do more than just make out every now and then, but the only option that comes to his mind is to ask Steve out on a date, and god knows he’s too anxious to ever do that. He would completely ruin it, Steve would say no—it would all fall apart, just like that.

“Alright,” Bruce sighs, chewing on a mouthful of eggs. “I think you’re good. You can go through the rest of the edits.”

Bucky smiles thankfully. “You’re the best, dude.”

“Please don’t ever wake me up before seven thirty again.”

“You got it.”

When Bruce heads to his first class, Bucky stays in the cafeteria and works on his paper. He does it as quickly and concisely as possible, because he’s going to be late for his morning run with Sam if he doesn’t hurry up. That would, in turn, make him late for class, and he can’t have that. So he flies through the paper and submits it to his professor as soon as he’s finished. After finishing his breakfast and gathering his things, Bucky speeds back to his dorm to drop everything off.

Sam is already waiting at Bucky’s door, tapping his fitbit dramatically.

“You’re late.”

“By like, four minutes!”

“Four minutes of my precious time. Gone.”

Bucky literally tosses his backpack onto his bed and immediately shuts the door. Sam opens his mouth to complain again but Bucky rolls his eyes and shoves him.

“Quit bitchin’ and let’s go already.”

They leave and head to the trail that leads through campus. Sam pops his headphones in and runs along to the obnoxiously loud beat of a Drake song. Sam’s been obsessed with him since high school. His music’s grown on Bucky too over the years, but he can’t tell Sam that, because he gave Sam so much shit for listening to Drake in high school. For the most part, Sam and Bucky had very different musical tastes growing up. Bucky didn’t let go of his Green Day obsession until eleventh grade, and Sam listened to Lil Wayne until senior year. However, according to their mother, all of their musical tastes were terrible anyway.

Together, they run about two miles without stopping. Sam has always been the better runner, since he has to do it almost every morning for ROTC, and had run track and cross country in high school. Bucky was much more comfortable in the gym, lifting or resistance training; cardio has never been his favorite. However, since coming to WWU, this is one of the things that he enjoys doing with Sam, being that they don’t see each other much during the week. It’s a nice way to blow off steam and spend time together.

After two miles, they stop and rest out near the football stadium. Bucky bends forward, stretching his back and his quads, while Sam stands tall and stretches his biceps behind his head. Sam takes a sip from his water bottle and clears his throat before he speaks.

“So,” he begins, eyes wide as he watches Bucky. “T’Challa told that he met you last Tuesday. At the SAFE meeting. With Steve.”

Bucky stands straight up. “Uh, yeah. Steve asked me to go with him,” he quickly answers, maybe even too quickly..

Sam nods slowly. “That was nice of you.” He says. Bucky doesn’t answer. He knows that his brother is smart, he knows what’s coming next, and he knows that he’s completely unprepared. “Okay listen, you’re my brother and I love you, but you’re fulla shit. Is there something going on with you and Steve? Because it sure seems like it.”

Bucky opens his mouth for two seconds but slams it shut right after. He grabs at the air, pitifully trying to search for words to explain.

“I mean…okay, I was gonna tell you. I was, I swear. But…I just? I don’t know? I—ugh.”

“Spit it out, dude.”

“We have been making out. A lot. For like a month.”

“Too much information.”

“What—you asked!”

“You could’ve worked your way up to telling me _that_ fact.”

“I’m not good at that,” Bucky admits. “I—I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I really am. I didn’t want things to be weird, especially since he’s your roommate, but I shoulda told you. That wasn’t right.”

Sam shakes his head. “For starters, I’m not mad. You’re a grown man, you’re allowed to keep things to yourself. And if you’re happy, I’m happy. Just don’t mess around on my futon.”

Bucky’s eyes shoot open. “Dude! We haven’t even—never mind. Never mind.”

“Wait, hold up. What did you do to my futon?”

“Nothing!”

“Bucky, I swear to god…”

“We haven’t done anything on the futon. Or…anywhere.”

Sam pauses—now it’s his turn to be surprised. “…no shit?”

“Why would I make this up?”

“Okay I shouldn’t know this, but like…he hasn’t…in a real long time.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Wow.”

“It just hasn’t happened.”

Sam posts up, hands on his hips. “Does he not…want to?”

Bucky shakes his head, swiping his sweaty hair out of his face. “No, it’s me,” he confesses. It’s always, always him.

“Do you not want to?”

“I do, I’m just…like, I’m not afraid, I just don’t wanna fuck it up or freak out in the middle of something.”

“Freak out in the middle, like…?”

“Man, you know. You know.”

“Oh. _Oh._ ”

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs, closing his eyes to keep the bad memories at bay. “I just—I don’t wanna ruin something before it even happens.”

“So, your solution is… to never let it happen?”

Bucky is silent then. Sam knows him better than anyone, and he knows when he’s being difficult, too. Of course, Bucky wants things to happen. But the last person he was intimate with treated him like garbage and he doesn’t want to be inadvertently reminded of that.

“Alright, as weird as it is that you’re considering hooking up with my roommate— _god_ , this is so weird—I think you should like, not overthink this. You’ve obviously comfortable with him if you’ve gotten this far, so it’ll probably just…happen, y’know?”

Bucky lifts his shoulder in a half shrug. “I just don’t want to mess things up.”

“I think you’ll be fine,” Sam tells him. “But seriously, stay the hell away from my futon.”

Bucky tries to smile, but in reality, he’s so nervous that he thinks he might die from it. This has been on his mind for weeks and putting it all on the table only makes it worse.

“Anyway, I guess it’s kind of cool that y’all are…doing whatever you’re doing. Is it exclusive?”

“No.” Bucky quickly replies. “No, god we haven’t even gone on a real date yet—”

“...you’re thinking about boning my roommate and you haven’t even taken him out on a date? Boy, didn’t Ma teach you to have manners?”

“…come on, man.” Bucky groans. “I’m really, really bad at this.”

“I can tell!” Sam shakes his head. “Look, man. Ask him out. Do something nice. And then…do whatever else. But at least take the guy out somewhere. Unless this is just a _thing_ for you, which...in that case don’t break the kid’s heart too bad because I still have to live with him for a whole ‘nother semester.”

“It’s not like that.” Bucky’s voice is firm now, and he’s looking directly at Sam. “I wouldn’t do that to him. I—I wouldn’t string anyone along like that, you know that.” Bucky knows what it feels like to be toyed with, to be strung along and misled, and he can’t imagine doing that to anyone, especially not Steve. “I like him a lot, Sam.”

“Okay, good. Then take him out on a date. Get him out of our room for once so I can have it for a night.”

“Dude, come on.”

“Oh, _please_.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Take out your stupid phone and text him. Literally, it takes three seconds.”

“Sam.”

“Just do it already.”

Knowing that Sam isn’t going to let this go, Bucky pulls his phone from the bottom of his pocket. He pulls up Steve’s name and composes a quick text that serves to make him feel even more embarrassed.

_(8:31) hey so like do you wanna like grab a bite or something tonight? like go out to dinner together…like a date do you wanna go out on a date with me_

“See, was that so hard?”

“ _Yes_.”

Sam laughs and shoves Bucky’s shoulder, as Bucky groans, silencing his phone and shoving it back into the pocket of his shorts. They start running again and it isn’t until they end their third mile that Bucky reads Steve’s reply.

_(8:45) I would really like that :)_

It’s then that Bucky realizes he has absolutely no idea where to go.

He spends his entire day panicking. He can’t believe he let his impulses—and Sam, the worst brother in the history of brothers—make this decision. How in the world could he ask Steve out to dinner, out on a date, and not have a single place in mind? On a list of uninformed decisions that Bucky Barnes has made, this would definitely be in the top ten.

At 9:30, after showering, getting dressed, and getting ready for class, Bucky texts Steve and tells him that he’ll pick him up at six. That gives him eight and a half hours to figure out what the hell they’re going to do. He panics through his two classes; he panics through his desk shift— he panics while he’s googling “nice restaurants near me.” He skips out on lunch with his brothers because he knows he wouldn’t be able to keep it together well enough. He panics as he choosing an outfit, frantically sending pictures to Bruce, begging him to help make a decision. Bucky hasn’t asked someone out on a date in _years_ ; he has no idea what he’s doing. A silent mantra of “do not mess this up, do not mess this up” replays in his mind, over and over again.

By five, he finds a restaurant. By 5:30, he’s cleaning out his junky car and tying down the trunk so that it doesn’t pop open at an inopportune moment and giving him a heart attack. By 5:45, he’s outside Steve’s dorm, pacing back and forth with a cigarette between his lips as he envisions every single thing that could possibly go wrong.

**______________________________________________________________________________________**

Steve stares down at his phone, wide-eyed, mouth hanging open. He blinks a few times, just to make sure he isn’t seeing things or misreading a text. Hell, he even puts on his reading glasses just to make sure that this text really says _“do you wanna go out on a date with me”_

It does.

He spends about three minutes walking back and forth in his room, hand over his mouth, smiling like an idiot. Steve is so glad that Sam’s not here to see this, because there’d be no good way to explain. He figures it’s about time to tell Sam what’s going on, but there’d be no nice way to say “I’m sort of seeing your brother and he asked me out on a date.”  Steve would much rather save that admittance for a later date.

Steve texts back, hands shaking the entire time. He’ll admit that he’s nervous, but it’s a good nervous. He feels _good_ . And _surprised_. It’s been almost a month since this whole thing with Bucky started, and Steve had never felt any indication that it would be anything more than what it was. He never expected Bucky to actually ask him out on a real date. He knew that Bucky was still in the closet, and so he expected things to be static, expected to keep this up, maybe hook up once or twice, but never anything like this. Because a date is something more than that, right? A date is something serious, isn’t it?

For the rest of the day, Steve is on cloud nine. He’s lighter than a feather on the inside. He wishes he could tell someone, just so he could share this excitement, but he has no choice but to keep it to himself. However, later on that afternoon after his Drawing I class, when he’s getting lunch with Darcy, (who drags him along because she’s late on her Resident Observations) she’s the first to comment on his elevated mood.

“You’re so…peppy,” she points out, squinting a little. “Are you high?”

“Not even a little,” Steve tells her. “I’m…I’m good.” He feels himself smiling—he can’t control it.

Darcy eyes him curiously. “You’re _too_ happy today. What’s going on? Tell me.”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Is it about the _boy_? It’s gotta be. Here—hold on, let me get my pen.”

“Darcy, you are not writing about this in the book.”

It’s too late. Darcy’s already digging through her messenger bag, pulling out the blue book with Steve’s name on it. He rolls his eyes.

“Just tell me one thing and then I’ll put the book away so we can like, have a real conversation.”

Knowing she won’t put the book away until she does, Steve caves in.

“Date,” He says. “I’m going out on a date.”

“Holy shit, man. Look at you go!” Darcy scribbles the word “DATE” in all caps across the bottom of the page and then shoves the whole thing back into her bag. “Where to?”

“I don’t actually know,” Steve admits. “He asked me this morning but he never said where. So I guess it’s a surprise?”

“Nice,” Darcy nods, a red smile stretched across her face. “So like, are you two exclusive now or what?”

“Uh, no,” Steve shakes his head. “No, we just—it’s just kind of—it’s just…?”

“Cool, cool—no labels, I get it.” Darcy nods. She bites into her turkey sandwich and chews as she talks. “Right on, little dude.”

“I’ll let you know how it goes, as long as you don’t write it down.”

Darcy grins. “I’ll leave the book out of this, I promise.”

Steve laughs, taking a sip from his bottle of water before he speaks. “So, what about you? Do you like…I mean I know you’re busy because you’re an RA, but do you even have time to date?”

Shrugging, Darcy takes another bite from her sandwich. “Here and there, yeah. I was seeing this guy on and off— Loki— but he turned out to be an ass.”

“…I think I know him.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Darcy shrugs. “And then I started seeing this girl named Jane. We still hang out sometimes. I’m kind of talking to this frat boy from Sig Ep but, yeah. I’m not into the whole monogamy thing.”

Steve nods. “That’s valid,” he says. “Have you ever dated more than one person at the same time?”

“Oh yeah—I was in a triad two years ago. It was really amazing.”

“What happened?”

“Eh, one person transferred to a college down south and the other started studying abroad. It kind of just ended—peacefully, thank god. We’re all still friends. It worked itself out.”

“Did your folks know about it?”

Darcy nods and then shrugs her shoulders. “Yeah. Mom wasn’t thrilled—still isn’t. Dad’s gotten better about it. It is what it is.” She shrugs again. “What about you? How’d your parents take it—I’m sorry, how do you identify?”

“Bisexual,” Steve informs her. “And my parents were cool about it. I mean, they kind of knew when I was younger. And when I officially came out, they weren’t very surprised. My mom is awesome about it, honestly. Once she accepted that I was never going to marry my ex-girlfriend, she’s been really, really great.”

“That’s so awesome,” Darcy grins. “It’s nice to hear about parents having like, not-shitty reactions for once.”

“Yeah,” Steve nods, propping his right elbow up on the table and resting his chin on his palm. “It was so much easier coming out to my parents than it was to my friends. I mean, they were pretty good about it? But I always felt like the odd one out, you know? Now, come to find out, my best friend Nat has probably been hooking up with my ex-girlfriend so, I guess that’s over.”

“That’s hilarious, but really weird.”

“You’re telling me—I saw them drunk, making out on a couch on Halloween. I was not ready.” Steve chuckles, taking another drink from his water bottle.

“College does thing to you, man. Brings out your inner explorer and shit.” At that, Steve nearly spits out his water as he laughs. Darcy laughs too, bringing her shoulders up to her ears as she shrugs with open arms. “I’m just saying, might as well try new things while we’re here. ‘Cause after this is the real world, and I hear it’s terrible.” Darcy checks the time on her cellphone. “Ah, shit— I’m gonna be late to class.” She wraps up what’s left of her sandwich, then shoves her phone into her bra. “Listen dude, I hope your date goes well—make sure you find me and tell me all about it, alright?”

“Sure thing.”

Darcy stands up and quickly wraps her thick red scarf around her neck. She shoves her sandwich into her messenger bag and steps back from the table, waving to Steve before she bounds off and toward the exit.

Steve takes his time finishing his own lunch. He spends at least half an hour going through the discussion board for his Women’s Studies course, asking and answering enough questions to get the points before class. Once he’s done, he packs up all his things and heads to class. His professor, Dr. Munroe, is in a mood that day. She spends at least half of the class lecturing about why heterosexism, racism, and misogyny have ruined everything and Steve can’t say that he doesn’t agree. He admires this woman more and more every day.

After Women’s Studies, Steve has Spanish, like he does every day. Today isn’t as much of a struggle as it usually is. Knowing that he passed his last exam with a 91% helps his confidence—even the professor tells Steve that they noticed how hard he’d been working. He’s thankful for that; it makes him want to work even harder. Wanda comes back to his dorm with him later to work through their homework. It’s due tomorrow and Steve wants to get it done now, because after he comes back from his date with Bucky, he knows that he won’t be able to concentrate on anything remotely academic. He can barely do that _now_.

Even as they work through the pages upon pages of work, Steve is antsy. He keeps looking at his phone, checking the time, planning out an outfit in his head, trying not to let his imagination get the best of him when he thinks about where Bucky might take him. Throughout the afternoon, Wanda doesn’t comment on Steve’s inability to focus—she politely redirects him time after time, ensuring that they get the work done before she leaves.

When they finish, and Wanda is packing up her things to leave, Steve asks her to stay for just a few more minutes.

“Alright—this might be weird but like, could you help me out really quick?”

“Of course,” Wanda says, laying her backpack down on Steve’s desk. “With what?”

“I need to—okay, well I need to pick an outfit. For a thing.”

Wanda’s eyes brighten with curiosity. “What kind of thing, Steve?”

“…a date, okay? It’s a—I have one. I have a date—no, no don’t make that face, come on!”

“ _Steve!_ ” Wanda exclaims, ruffling his hair. “You weren’t going to tell me? This is so exciting!”

“Please, don’t tell anyone. Especially not Peggy, Clint, Natasha, or Sam.”

“That’s literally all of your friends.” Wanda deadpans. She tilts her head. “You didn’t say Bucky—did you tell him already? Are you going to tell everyone else?”

Steve coughs loudly, hiding his embarrassment. “Uh—can you just help me? Here—I was thinking about this and this.” He leaps over to his closet and pulls out a pair of light jeans and a long-sleeve red v-neck. Wanda shakes her head and tosses both items aside.

“Fall shades, Steve—also, it’s getting cold out. Do you own a scarf?”

Steve ends up wearing a pair of dark jeans with a white shirt, a grey cardigan, and a black and white scarf that his mother knit for him almost two years ago. It’s bulky around his neck but Wanda assures him that it looks perfect. She’s always well-dressed, so Steve has to take her word for it.  

Thankfully, she leaves well before six, which gives Steve time to panic on his own. He wears his best cologne, brushes his teeth twice, and even styles his hair. He knows that it’s not like Bucky hasn’t seen him before, but something about this feels different, and so Steve wants to feel different too.

When six o’clock rolls around, Steve gets a text from Bucky, telling Steve that he’s here and asking if Steve wants him to come upstairs. Steve tells Bucky no and spends the whole two-minute walk to the ground floor panicking even more. His heart is trying to beat out of his fragile chest; his palms are already sweaty and he hasn’t even seen Bucky’s face yet. Although, when he gets outside and finally lays eyes on him, he realizes that his heart has every right to react the way it did.

Bucky stands next to his car, already grinning at Steve. His hair is pulled back into an uncharacteristically neat bun, he’s completely clean-shaven, and wearing clothes that Steve has never seen before. A fitting pair of blue jeans and a tight blue sweater that shows off his muscles in all the right places. Steve is caught off guard by how downright gorgeous he looks.

Steve tries to pull himself together enough to at least not _obviously_ drool over Bucky as he walks toward him.

“Hey,” Bucky walks around to the other side of the car, just to open the passenger’s door for Steve.

Laughing nervously, Steve steps around to get into the car. “A real gentleman,” he teases.

Bucky half-shrugs and smiles. “What can I say? My Mama raised me right.”

He shuts the door once Steve is inside and then walks to the driver’s side. Steve takes a deep breath and composes himself, clasping his sweaty hands in his lap as Bucky climbs inside the car.

“So…” Bucky begins, awkwardly stretching out the word.

“So,” Steve replies as he stares straight out the window, avoiding Bucky’s eyes.

Bucky clears his throat. “I’m—I’m really bad at this. Remember how I said that you make me nervous? That’s not a thing that went away.”

“I’m nervous too,” Steve admits, finally breathing. “Why are we nervous? We shouldn’t be nervous. There’s no reason to be nervous, right? No reason at all.” Steve is rambling. He _knows_ he’s rambling and that he sounds like an idiot.

“I don’t wanna mess this up,” Bucky admits. “That’s why.”

Steve wrings his hands together. “I don’t want to mess it up either.”

Bucky tightly grips the steering wheel, nervously glancing at Steve.“The restaurant is nice,” he blurts out, exhaling slowly. “I made sure it was nice.”

“I like food, I’m sure I’ll like it.” After that leaves his mouth, Steve wants to kick himself. Stupid. “I trust your judgement.”

“That’s probably a poor choice,” Bucky laughs, genuinely, for the first time. He takes a deep breath and grips the steering wheel with one hand while starting the ignition. His car sputters to life and Steve remembers to strap himself in. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

Bucky pulls out of the parking lot and immediately puts on some music. It seems to ease the tension in the car. Steve, for the life of him, cannot understand why he’s so anxious. It’s not like this is the first time they’ve eaten food together, it’s not like it’s the first time they’ll kiss, or anything like that. But no matter which way he looks at this, it still feels like the very first time.

“So…the place is kind of in the next town over,” Bucky tells Steve, one hand on the steering wheel, one on his thigh. “It’s gonna take like half an hour, I hope that’s not bad?”

“No, that’s not bad at all,” Steve replies. However, if he has to sit in this car for more than thirty minutes, with the scent of Bucky’s cologne spreading through the air, he might have a heart attack. He wouldn’t mind asking Bucky to pull the car over, just so he could kiss him. Maybe _that_ would calm him down—at least it wouldn’t feel out-of-the-ordinary.

Despite his nerves, Steve does reach out and take Bucky’s hand from where it rests on his thigh. He tentatively laces their fingers together while staring out the window. He hears Bucky sigh as he tucks their fingers. The soft sounds of the radio play in the background and neither boy speaks—Steve isn’t put off by the silence. It’s nice; he doesn’t feel like Bucky expects him to say anything, and he’s grateful for that. Bucky doesn’t release Steve’s hand for the whole ride; even when his fingers get all gross and sweaty, Bucky still hangs on.

Bucky parks on the street, a few buildings down. As they walk down the street together, Bucky stays close to Steve and their hands brush together constantly. The quaint restaurant is wedged between two buildings more than twice its size. A white awning spans across the face of the building, which is covered in hanging, shining bulbs. As they get closer to the restaurant, Steve notices a small sign on the sidewalk outside the door. It reads: _Date Night? Free Ice Cream, on Us_.

“Do you like ice cream?” Steve blurts without thinking.

“…who doesn’t like ice cream?” Bucky side-eyes Steve and Steve immediately points to the sign they’re approaching. “Oh.” He pauses, like he's thinking it over. “I—I guess we’ll have to mention that.”

“We don’t have to,” Steve says. “We don’t have to like, say it’s a date.”

“It is, though.” Bucky stops before they reach the door. He leans over and kisses Steve’s cheek, lightning-fast. “Anyway, you’re a hot date. Might as well.”

Steve can’t stop smiling. It’s especially hard to stop once they get inside the restaurant and he finds out that Bucky actually made reservations for them. He didn’t expect this—especially not for a first date. Maybe on second or third date material. Steve’s first dates have never been in the best places—burger joints aren’t always first-date friendly. Then again, would there even _be_ a second or third date? He isn’t sure—he doesn’t want to think about it. While the host leads them to their table in the back corner of the restaurant, Steve keeps smiling. They’re seated and the host tells them that their server will be with them in a few minutes. Steve takes a glance around the restaurant, quickly surveying. The décor is charming; low lights, delicate, neat table-cloths, walls lined with classy paintings from local artists— it has an artistic feel to it that immediately impresses Steve.

“Is this too much?” Bucky asks, drawing Steve’s attention. “It’s too much, right?

Steve shakes his head. “No, I really like this place. It’s…it’s just right.”

“Okay, good,” Bucky exhales quickly. “I just…like, I don’t know—I’ve never done this.”

“Been on a date?” Steve asks, incredulous.

Bucky half shrugs. “I’ve been _on_ dates,” he says, speaking in a low voice. “But like…I’ve never really asked someone out on one. Taking girls out to bars doesn’t count, trust me.” Bucky drags his hand over his face, groaning. “You’re freaking out. You’re like, totally freaked out right now.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’m not freaking out. That doesn’t bother me—there’s nothing wrong.”

“You’ve asked people out on dates before, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, and most of them ended terribly,” Steve shrugs. “And besides, the only person who’s ever asked _me_ out on a real date—besides you—is Peggy. So relax—and figure out what you wanna eat because I’m starving.” Steve hides his accomplished smile behind his menu. Bucky does the same, smirking despite his dramatic, put upon sigh.

“You’re so cute when you’re bossing me around.”

Steve doesn’t answer, but he aims a light, playful kick at Bucky’s leg. Bucky kicks him back and they’re both struggling not to laugh and knock the silverware off the table. They only stop when their waitress comes over. She’s shorter than Steve—an impressive feat—with long, dark hair, brown skin, and a sleeve of intricate tattoos. Immediately, Steve wants to ask her about him.

“Hi, I’m Angel—I’ll be your server tonight. What can I get you to drink?”

Steve orders coke and Bucky orders water, joking with the waitress, telling her he’s “watching his physique”. Steve kicks him under the table again.

“Do you want an appetizer?” Bucky asks.

Nose deep in the menu, Steve sighs. “I want everything.”

Bucky laughs. “Definitely not a cheap date, huh?”

“I’ll eat anybody out of house and home, trust me,” Steve chuckles. “My Ma would always complain that she could never keep food in the house. Now that I’m gone, the fridge is probably always stuffed.”

Bucky nods. “My parents are the same way—raising me and Sam was definitely expensive. I almost feel bad, now that I know what food actually costs. Not to mention all the time it takes to actually cook.” Bucky takes a moment, tilting his head as he watches Steve. “Do you cook?”

“I can make really great scrambled eggs.” He grins, laughing. “You?”

“I cook,” Bucky answers. “And bake. It makes me feel good, you know? Makin’ things. I’ll cook for you sometime.”

Menu blocking his face, Steve speaks. “Is that gonna be our second date?”

There’s a brief pause before Bucky clears his throat. “Maybe,” he replies. Steve can’t see his face, but he can hear him smiling.

When the waitress comes back with their drinks, it takes them three minutes to order an appetizer because Bucky is picky and can’t make up his mind. They settle on spinach dip, which is apparently a house favorite, and so it comes out quicker than they expected. It comes out on a huge, circular tray, with loads of pita chips. Steve, as hungry as he is, knows they’ll have no trouble finishing this. They dig in and Bucky makes it a point to purposefully break Steve’s chips every time he comes near the bowl, which earns him another kick under the table and forces Steve to start stealing chips from Bucky’s side of the bowl.

“I am not a nice person when I don’t eat,” Steve informs Bucky. “Hangry is a real thing.”

“Well, you’re always a lil’ bit angry.”

“You’re damn right.” Steve proudly answers.

Bucky laughs and has to catch his chips from falling out of his mouth. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” he jokes.

Steve picks up a chip and reaches forward to dip it into the bowl. He looks up at Bucky and when he speaks, it’s in a low voice that only Bucky can hear. “You know who I kiss with this mouth.”

Bucky brings his fist up to his mouth, slowly exhaling. “That’s not fair.”

“What?” Steve asks, almost too innocently.

“You can’t…say stuff like that and look at me like that.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause we’re in a real nice restaurant and, as much as I would like to, makin’ out with you here would probably be a bad choice.”

“But later,” Steve says, matter-of-factly.

He does not miss the mischievous grin on Bucky’s face. “Later.”

Eventually they order their meals. The waitress makes polite conversation when she returns and, surprisingly, Bucky is the first to ask about her tattoos. She explains the meaning of each part of her sleeve, even rolling up her shirt to show them the ink on her biceps. Bucky is extremely intrigued with her reasoning, while Steve is enamored with the artistry of it all.  When she leaves, they both turn to one another and simultaneously ask the same question:

“Do you have any tattoos?”

Steve is the first to answer. “No,” he says. “I’ve never really wanted any, but I’ve always really admired tattoo artists, you know? Like… it takes skill to paint a picture on someone’s skin. Dedication. So much practice.”

“You ever think about goin’ into somethin’ like that?”

“Sometimes?” Steve admits. “But…I dunno,I really want to stick to drawing. Maybe when I’m having my midlife crisis, I’ll consider it.”

Bucky laughs. “I don’t have any either, but I’ve been thinkin’ about one for a long time.”

“Oh really? What are you thinking about getting?” Steve asks.

Suddenly, the expression on Bucky’s face changes. His smile becomes somber, almost sad. “Just—just something for someone I lost, no big deal.”

Steve is observant enough to notice the shift in Bucky’s mood, so he doesn’t push the subject. He jokes with Bucky, just to bring his spirits back up.

“Let me know when you’re gonna get it—I’ll come hold your hand in case you wanna be a baby about it.”

Bucky barks out a laugh and tosses a pita chip directly at Steve. “You fuckin’ suck.”

They’re back on good behavior when Angel comes back with their entrees. By the time she sets the food down and says “be careful, it’s hot,” Bucky has already burned his tongue. For the rest of the meal, he complains that he can’t taste his food. Despite that, things go well. The air of anxiousness that surrounded them in the car has completely disappeared and been replaced with their easygoing, playful banter. Despite wanting to kiss him 95% of the time, Steve really values the fact that they are friends. Even if all this was gone, all the emotions and romantic feelings, he would still want to be Bucky’s friend. He hopes that it’s the same for Bucky.

As they eat, Bucky talks about his plans for Thanksgiving. Like Steve, he’s heading back to home to New York. Apparently, Sam has a biological older brother who’s visiting for the holiday, and he’s engaged to a girl that nobody in the family really likes-- “her name is Carol, and she works in marketing, and she's _the worst_. Ask Sam about New Orleans sometime. It's gonna be a hell of a holiday.”

Steve, on the other hand, has a much quieter holiday planned. “My mom and I are gonna have dinner together, like always. Kinda boring. Then we're going to the hospital.”

Bucky looks up from his food at once, alarmed, and Steve has to bite back a laugh as he holds out his hand in a reassuring gesture. “No, no, it's not…we're volunteering. Like, helping deliver home cooked meals and coloring books and stuff.”

Bucky is still looking at him, head tilted curiously, so Steve continues.  “It’s…you know, people still have to be in the hospital during the holidays, and, for the kids who have to stay there, especially…it's just nice to be able to bring at least a little joy, you know?” Steve spent enough of his holidays in the hospital to know how much they need this.

His gaze has drifted down to the tablecloth, and when he looks back up, Bucky is staring at him, a strange mixture of awe and sadness in his eyes. But when Steve starts to ask a question, he quickly shakes his head, the familiar mischievous grin on his face. “Food’s getting cold, punk.” Steve smiles too and starts to eat, lowering his gaze once more.

Once they finish their meals, the hostess returns. Bucky starts to ask for the check, but in the middle of his sentence, he stops himself.

“Oh,” he says, clasping his hands together. “Could we like…do the ice-cream, thing?”

“For Date Night?” Angel asks. Bucky nods once, albeit shyly. She grins thoughtfully and nods. “Sure thing. Chocolate or vanilla?”

When Angel comes back with a sharable bowl of vanilla ice cream, both boys are surprised to find a rainbow colored umbrella sticking right out of the top. She winks at Steve when she sets it down, leaving the check in the middle of the table too, along with two spoons. Before Steve even touches it, he whips out his cell phone and takes a picture of it, adds a filter, and uploads it to Instagram.

“That was cute,” Bucky jokes, plucking out the umbrella and carefully setting it aside. “Can I eat or will it ruin your aesthetic?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Steve laughs, picking up his spoon. “I shouldn’t even share with you.”

“It’s only free if we share it, y’know. It’s a date, punk."

Steve sticks out his tongue childishly and digs right in. It inadvertently becomes a race of who can eat the most ice cream from the dish. Steve wins, of course.

Bucky pays the bill, despite Steve’s protests. He ignores the “Let’s split it” and “Let me help” and pays for the whole thing. Steve makes a silent vow to pay Bucky back, in some form, and soon.

As they leave the restaurant and begin walking back toward the car, Bucky stops Steve on the sidewalk.

“Hold on—c’mere.”

Steve watches, with awe and thundering heart, as Bucky gently places the rainbow colored umbrella behind Steve’s ear, like a flower. A goofy smile comes over Bucky’s face, and he folds his arms across his chest, nodding.

“Perfect.”

Smiling, Steve reaches up to touch the umbrella. “Well, now we have to get a picture.” He pauses. “That’s okay, right? I’ll just keep it for me. I won’t post it.”

“It’s cool—send it to me, though.”

“Right.”

Steve takes out his phone and pulls up the front facing camera. Bucky positions himself beside Steve with his arm around his back. Steve smiles into the camera and leans closer toward him, closing any space between them and making sure to get a clear shot of the silly umbrella behind his ear.  Once they take the picture, Steve sends it straight to Bucky.

When Bucky opens the message, he immediately starts grinning. “We look good.”

“We do,” Steve agrees, smiling too.

On the drive back into town, Bucky clears his throat and turns down the music. “So…I bought that movie. The one with the mermaids and shit. Do you wanna…come over and watch it?”

Steve is exhausted, but he can’t say no; it’s too adorable for him to say no, and he doesn’t _actually_ want to go straight to his dorm, anyway. He tells himself that he can make it through the movie, whatever it takes.

He must have taken a second too long to answer, because Bucky is already blushing, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter as he rambles. “You don't have to, it's cool—I know it's kinda late, I can just drive you back—”

“I'd love to, Bucky.”

They get back to Bucky’s dorm and Steve goes into the bathroom while Bucky sets up the movie. He takes his time making sure he hasn’t sweat through his clothes out of nervousness, that there’s no food in his teeth, and that he still looks mildly presentable. When he comes out, Bucky has put the movie in and nicely set up his bed. He’s sitting on the bed, remote in hand, and when he sees Steve, he pats a space on the bed for him.

Steve sits on the bed beside Bucky, taking off his scarf and cardigan, because the temperature in the room is too toasty for extra layers. Bucky starts the movie and then lies down; Steve follows him, lying beside him with his head resting on Bucky’s bicep. The movie starts playing, and Steve is so impressed and amazed when he hears Bucky singing along to the songs. He also realizes, again, that Bucky has such a nice singing voice. Listening to him sing and hum along to the soundtrack puts Steve into a stage of peace, a state of ease. Bucky is cuddling Steve from behind, one arm under Steve’s head and the other around his waist. Steve is so comfortable that he dozes off a few times; tries his best to persevere. However, when he starts drooling on Bucky’s arm, that’s when he draws the line for himself.

“I should probably go back,” Steve yawns, dragging his hand along his face as he turns over onto his back. “I’m pretty tired.”

“You—You can stay? If you want?” Bucky offers, stumbling over his words. “I mean. You can go if you really want to but you’re totally welcome to stay.”

Steve glances over at Bucky, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Do you want me to stay?” he asks.

“… yeah. I’d like that.”

“Then I’ll stay.” Steve smiles, ducking his head before kissing Bucky. “I’m glad you asked.”

Bucky tightens his arm around Steve’s waist again and leans in to kiss him once more. “Me too,” he mumbles, catching Steve’s bottom lip between his teeth. Steve turns over on his side and drapes his arm around Bucky’s neck.

“So do I have permission to kiss you for the rest of the night?”

Steve laughs softly, sliding closer to Bucky. “Of course.”

Somewhere between kissing, cuddling, and trying to finish the movie, Steve dozes off again. After a while Bucky politely shakes him awake, asking him if he wants something to change into for bed. Steve tells him yes, albeit groggily, and Bucky gives him a t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts to change into. Steve goes to the bathroom to strip out of his street clothes and change. Bucky’s t-shirt is three sizes too big and the basketball shorts hang past Steve’s knees, but the clothes smell just like Bucky, and that makes Steve happier than he’d like to admit.

When he comes out of the bathroom, the lights are out and Bucky is waiting for him in bed, arms outstretched like a child, grabby hands and all. Steve rolls his eyes and yawns as he shuffles back over to the bed. He climbs back in and goes straight into Bucky’s arms. They lie down together, Bucky on his back and Steve on his side, with his head pressed to Bucky’s chest.

“You’re so much sweeter when you’re sleepy,” Bucky grins, resting his chin against Steve’s head.

Steve closes his eyes and sighs. “I would say something rude right now, but I’m too tired to think of it.”

“So sweet. Small and cute.”

“Shut up.”

“I love it when you tell me what to do.”

Steve reaches up and covers Bucky’s mouth with his hand. “Shh…” Bucky licks each and every one of Steve’s fingers and Steve shouts, dragging his wet hand along the front of Bucky’s shirt. “You’re _disgusting_.”

Bucky chuckles and plants a wet kiss on Steve’s forehead.

“And yet you’re still here.”

“Mhm hm.”

“...You’re falling asleep, aren’t you?”

“Mhm hm.”

Silently, Bucky tightens his grip on Steve and, with his free hand, pulls the blanket up and around them. Steve burrows his face into Bucky’s chest, sighing contentedly. Minutes later, he drifts off to the feeling of Bucky gently running his fingers through his hair.

As he falls asleep, Steve is very aware of Bucky’s body next to him. It’s been so long since he’s slept next to another person—especially in this small of a bed—but it’s nice. The sound of Bucky’s steady breathing is what finally sends him off.

In the middle of the night, hours after they had fallen asleep, Steve abruptly awakens, stretching with a deep breath and a solid, sound complaint. The temperature in the room has risen significantly; even in the dark, he sees that the windows in Bucky’s room have fogged up almost completely. The vent blows steadily, releasing a stream of unnecessary, unbearable heat.  Bucky must have gotten hot too—there’s a huge space between them now, enough that they’re no longer touching at all.

Steve sits straight up, groaning uncomfortably as he peels his shirt from the wet skin of his abdomen. He pulls the shirt over his head and tosses it to the foot of the bed with a heavy huff. The movement wakes Bucky, who immediately rolls over onto his back, rubbing his eyes as he glances at Steve.

“...’S wrong?” he asks, words sleepily slurring together.

Steve, still half asleep, pouts with his eyes half-closed. “It's so hot. Why is it so _hot_?”

Bucky sits up, mumbling something about ‘automatic temperatures’ before sliding out from under the comforter and hopping out of bed. He goes to the thermostat near the door and slaps it blindly, until the heat from the vent stops running. Then, Bucky meanders over to the window and cracks it open, letting in a cool breeze. He stretches at the window before pulling off his shirt, tossing it aside with a yawn.

Steve watches him with wide eyes, now almost fully awake. Just the sight of Bucky sleepy and shirtless gets Steve to full attention, in more ways than one. Bucky is watching him, too. He stares at Steve from the window, one hand folded across his bare chest and the other covering his mouth. He stands there long enough that Steve starts to feel even hotter, and he's not sure if it has anything to do with the temperature in the room.

“You coming back?” Steve asks in a low voice, almost joking.

Bucky nods once. “Mhm hm.” He lets his hand drop from his mouth, to his side. Steve swallows hard, tightly gripping the comforter.

Steve watches as Bucky slowly makes his way back to the bed in smaller, careful steps. He sits on the edge of the bed and slides his legs back underneath the comforter, never breaking eye contact with Steve, who's still gripping the blanket for dear life. Silently, Bucky reaches out and rests his palm against Steve’s cheek, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb. Steve leans forward tentatively, but Bucky doesn't waste time. He takes Steve’s face into both hands and brings their lips together. Steve lays his hands against Bucky’s chest, splaying his fingers across his bare skin. Bucky is already sticky with sweat, but Steve doesn’t care one bit. Bucky kisses Steve’s whole mouth, not missing an inch of his lips; he takes Steve’s bottom lip between his teeth, gently tugging, nibbling. Steve returns this action, and slips his tongue past Bucky’s lips, into his mouth. Bucky’s mouth is eager and inviting, sliding open for Steve.

He pulls back, only to press his mouth into the crook of Steve's neck, planting slow, wet kisses. His teeth graze Steve's skin, and Steve lets loose a surprised gasp, followed by a low groan that he fails at hiding. He digs his fingers into Bucky’s shoulders as Bucky sucks on the skin of his neck. His hands travel across Steve’s back, holding him, pulling him close. Steve tucks his fingers in Bucky’s hair, pulling tightly. His heart speeds up when he feels Bucky trailing kisses back up his neck, only to meet his mouth once more. He sighs against Bucky’s mouth, hands still in his hair, chest to chest. All drowsiness having left his body, Steve is fully awake, fully aware and hypersensitive to every single touch of Bucky’s hands.

“Lie back,” Bucky whispers into Steve’s ear. Steve immediately pulls away and lies flat on his back, but his hands are around Bucky’s neck and he's pulling him right down with him.

Bucky slides in between Steve's legs and lies down on top of him, still kissing him with all the heat from before. Steve shudders when he feels Bucky, hard against his thigh. He grips the boy’s waist, pulling him close and pressing against him, hissing aloud when Bucky’s hips meet his with a slow thrust. Bucky keeps it up, grinding between Steve’s legs, almost teasingly. Steve's body meets every roll of Bucky’s hips and, after a while, he's so hard that he can't even think straight. He's kissing Bucky hungrily, rutting against him like he's starving for it. Steve feels as if there’s fire growing underneath his skin; he can’t be still, can’t be contained. He’s aching, burning for more.

Bucky kisses Steve's chin, breathing heavily. His eyes meet Steve's for only a moment before he speaks.

“Do you…do you want me to touch you?” he asks, completely still against Steve. Steve, who can't be assed to conceive another coherent thought, nods slowly and lets his head fall back against the pillows once again. Bucky licks his lips and nods once before setting his wet mouth on Steve’s again.

He trails his hot fingers down Steve’s stomach, teasing, taking his time, dragging his fingertips along Steve’s skin. Slowly, he comes to grip Steve through his boxers, squeezing tightly. Steve’s breathing stalls and he grips the side of the mattress with one hand, and Bucky’s arm with the other.

Bucky reads Steve's body language with ease. He runs his palm along Steve’s length at least twice more before sneaking his fingers underneath the band. He closes his fingers around Steve’s dick and begins stroking him slowly, rhythmically. He lies beside Steve and keeps kissing him while he touches him. Steve's shuddering breaths are met with Bucky’s tongue; his quiet gasps are drowned out inside of Bucky’s mouth, disappearing beneath his kiss. A low whine escapes him as Bucky squeezes him again, rolling his thumb across the tip, spreading pre cum across it before he closes his fist around it, only to slide it down again.

Writhing underneath his touch, Steve clutches at the sheets, gripping and releasing over again as he tries not to make too much noise. Bucky’s hands are strong and firm and he knows exactly what to do, exactly where to touch to make Steve’s moans louder, without even having to ask. Bucky leaves a path of kisses from Steve’s mouth, along his jaw, right up to his ear again. When he whispers to him again, Steve nearly comes out of his own skin.

“…can I go down on you?” Bucky asks in a husky, breathy voice. The sound of it makes him ache, leaves him twitching beneath his briefs, dripping.

Steve, mouth hanging open in awe and arousal, releases another shuddery breath. “You—you don’t have to do that,” he manages to say, stringing the words along coherently. But Bucky’s hand is still gripping him and he’s having a hell of a time concentrating.

Bucky kisses Steve’s neck again. “But what if I want to?” he murmurs, breathing shakily. “I know it’s been a long time; I want to make you feel good.”

“Yes, _yes_.” Steve kisses Bucky again, tasting sweat on his lips. Bucky kisses his chin and then pushes himself up from his elbows.

Hovering over Steve, Bucky reaches out to grasp the elastic band of Steve’s briefs. He looks to Steve, almost nervously, and Steve nods, silently reassuring him. Bucky pulls Steve’s briefs down, past his narrow hips, down his thighs and legs, then flings them to the side. Steve’s dick slides out from underneath, curling against his abdomen, leaving a sticky mess. He watches Bucky on his knees, leaning forward with low-lidded, dark eyes. He parts Steve’s legs and then leans forward, kissing the inside of his thighs. Steve’s sharp intake of breath echoes inside the room, bounces off the quiet walls, making him hyperaware of his own sounds. His eyes are closed tightly but he doesn’t need to see Bucky to know what he’s doing.

He nips at Steve’s inner thigh, licking the hot skin, pressing his lips against Steve’s balls before he does the same to his length. Steve’s body curls upward, unable to hold still any longer.

Bucky licks the tip first, taking it into his mouth. He loops his tongue underneath the head, sucking gently. Steve moans loudly and embarrasses himself with the sound. He grabs a pillow and tries to cover his whole mouth and face with it but Bucky, without moving, takes the pillow from him and tosses it to the ground. Then, without hesitation, he swallows as much of Steve as he can, drenching him in saliva, and uses his hands to make up for the space he can’t reach with his lips. Steve doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and so he holds onto Bucky’s shoulder with one and grips his hair with the other. This time, he is not gentle.

The inside of his mouth is wet and warm, and the way he wraps his tongue around as his head bobs up and down makes Steve whole body curl upward. He thrusts his hips forward, meeting Bucky’s mouth every time. When the tip of his dick touches the back of Bucky’s throat, he can’t help but release a deep, throaty moan that he’s sure is loud enough for the people across the hall to hear. The sounds that Bucky makes are absolutely sinful, the slurping and the occasional pop of his lips when he pulls off to stroke Steve faster. His mouth always comes back, hot and dripping wet.

In what feels like seconds later, Steve is frantically tapping Bucky’s shoulder, whispering for him to come up and to pull off. He does, but only so that he can meet Steve’s mouth again. He keeps pumping, stroking, until Steve is coming, spilling all over the bedsheets and turning to putty in Bucky’s arms. Bucky keeps squeezing and stroking until there’s nothing left, until his hands are covered in cum. Steve, completely gone and trying to remember how to breathe, just lies on his back until Bucky brings the comforter around him.

“…that was…” Steve doesn’t know what to say. He stares up at the ceiling, trying his best not to look Bucky in the eyes. He’s absolutely mortified—for being so noisy, for finishing so fast—he can’t bear to look at him. Bucky is wiping his hands on the side of the mattress closest to the wall, along the sheet, and Steve feels like he wants to crawl in a hole and die from embarrassment.

“Thanks for letting me do that,” Bucky whispers against Steve’s shoulder.

Steve laughs, albeit tiredly. “I should be thanking you for—god this is so—I’m so—ugh.”

“What’s the matter?” Bucky asks. “Was it bad? I’m sorry, I—”

“It was amazing.” Steve firmly assures him. “Amazing. You’re amazing. I just…I was so loud, and it happened so fast. I—It's embarrassing…”

“I like that you make noises,” Bucky confesses. “Let’s me know I’m not fuckin’ up too bad, you know? And as for the other thing…I don’t care that it was fast. That’s not important. As long as you feel good about it, that’s what matters.”

“I feel great about it.” Steve turns his head to face Bucky and plants a quick kiss on his lips. “Thank you.”

“C’mere,” Bucky whispers, wrapping his arms around Steve’s thin frame. Steve turns on his side and scoots closer, bringing his head to rest against Bucky’s chest. “Go back to sleep.”

Now that he’s close to Bucky again, Steve can feel that Bucky is still very much aroused. He glances up at him, clearing his throat.

“Bucky, you’re still…do you want me to…?”

Bucky shakes his head and immediately readjusts. “Nah, I’m good—promise,” he says. He rests his palm against Steve’s hip and kisses the top of his head. “Sleep.”

“Okay,” Steve murmurs, closing his eyes. As his pulsating heartbeat dies down, exhaustion hits him like a train. Bucky rubs circles into his back with one hand and holds him securely with the other. Steve can’t remember a time when he felt this safe, this wanted. He has no trouble falling asleep, now that he’s in Bucky’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated! Thanks for reading :)


	13. Chapter 13

When morning comes and Steve finally opens his eyes, he is immediately met with the bright beams of light pouring through the open windows. A swift, cool breeze whips through and Steve shivers, closes his eyes and buries his face into Bucky’s chest. Bucky, whose arm is already curled around Steve’s shoulders, just holds him closer and pulls the comforter up past his shoulders.

Inhaling deeply, Steve curls his body closer to Bucky’s side. “You smell nice,” he whispers, voice low and raspy.

Bucky smiles, giving a short laugh. “Thanks—I showered.”

Steve sleepily lifts his head to stare at Bucky, confused. “You did?” He pauses, reaching up to rub his eyes. “… how long have you been awake? What time is it?”

Bucky quickly shrugs. “I—so, I never actually went back to sleep? I was too…well, I wasn’t tired. So. after I showered and changed, I studied for a while and then I got back in with you.”

“You should’ve woken me up.” Steve tells him, frowning. He feels bad about Bucky not being able to sleep—with everything that he’s got going on, there’s no way he’ll make it through the day if he doesn’t sleep. Steve gets himself all worked up, all ready to become the mother hen he always is, but Bucky doesn’t allow it. Instead, he smiles that goofy smile that always seems to make Steve weak, make him melt.

“Nah.” Bucky shakes his head, softly raking his fingers through Steve’s messy hair. The feeling of Bucky’s fingertips against his scalp makes him sigh and lean right into Bucky’s touch. “You’re pretty adorable when you’re sleepin’. Especially when you’re drooling, it’s great.”

Mortified, Steve groans. “I am _so sorry_.” He buries his face again, hiding his embarrassment. This is definitely one flaw that he was not ready to face just yet. “It’s so disgusting.”

Bucky lets out a short, breathy laugh. “It’s cute,” he says.

“Whatever,” Steve sighs heavily. “What time is it?” he quickly changes the subject, voice muffled by Bucky’s shirt.

“Don’t get mad,” Bucky starts. Steve glances up immediately, with questioning eyes.. “It’s like… eleven. You slept through your alarms and I didn’t wanna wake you. You were so tired.” He anxiously bites his bottom lip. “Are you mad?”

Steve shakes his head. “I’m not mad,” he says. How could he be? The gesture is sweet, it’s thoughtful and, truth be told, Steve isn’t the least bit upset about missing class. “I’ve never skipped class before but...I mean, if I’m spending it with you, I guess it’s worth it.” He teases.

Bucky rolls his eyes and stares at Steve. “You _guess_?” He reaches underneath the comforter and pinches Steve’s side, making him yelp out in surprise. Steve playfully slaps Bucky’s bicep with an open palm and then Bucky threatens to push him out of the bed, to which Steve responds by physically clinging Bucky, throwing one leg over him and holding on tight.

Laughing, Bucky pulls the comforter up and snuggles up to Steve underneath it. Steve closes his eyes and rests his face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, inhaling slowly. The scent of his cologne has faded, but he still smells amazing, still smells like himself. Steve doesn’t regret missing class, not if it means that he gets to spend most of his morning cuddling with Bucky in bed. He has Spanish later that afternoon, but he’d be happy to skip that too. He realizes that Bucky must’ve missed class as well, because his mornings are usually full. Steve thinks about scolding him for that later but right now, it’s nice to just be next to him.

Eventually, his mind drifts to last night. He can’t believe that it actually happened, can’t believe that he and Bucky actually took that step. It wasn’t something that he’d been counting on; of course, it’s something that he wanted, but it was clear to him that Bucky needed to pace himself, take things slow. Bucky had been so good to him, made him feel comfortable safe. It’d been so long since anyone had touched Steve like that, and he’s so glad that it was Bucky—it couldn’t have been better with anyone else.

Over the last few months, Steve has learned so much about Bucky, come to appreciate him more and more. He couldn’t have predicted to get this close to someone; being with Bucky is already starting to feel natural and, although it’s a scary thought, it isn’t one that Steve can shy away from. There’s still so much to learn, so much more to know about Bucky, so many other things that he’ll probably feel shy about, eventually. There are so many questions that Steve wants to ask, but isn’t sure if and when he should. Questions about Bucky’s ex, about that happened— questions about his biological parents, and why the Wilsons adopted him. Steve doesn’t even know if Bucky is comfortable enough with _him_ to even answer these questions; does he even trust Steve enough to tell him?

“Hey,” Bucky speaks, glancing down at Steve. “You’ve got that far-away look on your face. What’s on your mind?”

Steve swallows hard, looking up. Bucky’s eyes are soft, they’re honest—questioning and concerned. Steve thinks, _maybe I can ask_. Maybe Bucky will answer. “I… so I have questions,” he finally admits, eyes downcast.

Bucky gives a half shrug. “Okay?” he says. “What about?”

“I don’t want to ruin the moment.”

“The moment will be here—what is it?”

Realizing that it’s too late to turn back, Steve nods to himself once. He takes a deep breath and hopes that what he says isn’t too much, or too sudden. Hopes that Bucky at least feels like he can trust him. “Well—okay, I was just wondering…about you. And about your biological parents. You don’t talk about them at all and like, I know that something…bad must’ve happened. And I’m sorry if I’m being nosy. I just—I was just wondering what happened. Sorry.”

“S’okay,” Bucky answers, clearing his throat before he sighs. There's something off about the sound, like it pains him to draw in the air. “I…my parents got together right out of high school. And they just…they didn't particularly like each other, I guess. They were all wrapped up in their shit.”

One of Bucky's hands has wandered up to the back of his head, fingers tangled up in his own long dark hair, wrenching his head backwards. His eyes are unfocused, staring off somewhere else completely. “And I just…I don't think they ever liked kids, or even wanted them? They were yelling at us or freezing us out. Nothing in between. We just…we made them mad.”

Steve tilts his head slightly, brow furrowing— _us?_  But Bucky's voice is so raw, so shaky, he doesn't want to press the subject. Something might break.

“And…eventually, it got bad enough, someone saw. Took me away. I was ten. Spent about three years bouncing around before I found people willing to put up with me.”

He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what he _can_ say. Instead, he lets his head drop down onto Bucky's chest again, nestling in closer, holding him tighter. He's rewarded with the quiet rush of air as Bucky lets out the breath he's been holding and lets his head drop back against the pillows with a gentle thud. His hand comes back to rest on Steve’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze.

“It was a long time ago. I don't really think about it anymore.”

Steve knows a lie when he hears one. No matter how much the speaker wants to believe it.

They lie together for a while longer; Bucky slides his hand along Steve’s arm and Steve traces circles into Bucky’s side. Every now and then, Bucky presses his mouth to the top of Steve’s head, not saying anything at all. Steve dreads the passage of time, knowing that soon he’ll have to go back to his dorm, leaving Bucky alone. Something tells him that he really, really shouldn’t do that.

But when 12:30 rolls around, Steve reluctantly comes back to reality.

“I gotta get ready for class,” Steve says, almost pouting. “And I should probably shower, because I’m gross. I feel gross.”

Finally smiling again, Bucky squeezes Steve one last time. Steve sits up and Bucky follows suit, stretching his arms into the air, joints cracking one after another.

“You can shower here, if you want. Your clothes are on my desk…I may or may not have done laundry.”

“ _What_?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Steve glances over at Bucky’s desk, where all of his clothes are neatly folded right on top, just as Bucky said. He turns back to the other boy, mouth hanging open in amazement.

“Thank you?”

Bucky grins. “Welcome.”

Steve hops out of bed, grabs his clothes, and heads into the bathroom. On the sink, Bucky had already set out towels, soap, and even a _toothbrush_. Steve is absolutely awestruck, not believing his eyes. He hadn’t expected Bucky to be this thoughtful, let alone this prepared. This time, he does shy away from his feelings, refusing to acknowledge the wave of warm, gooey emotions that this brings on.

Hurriedly, Steve climbs into the shower. The water pressure in Bucky’s shower is ten times better than that of the communal showers in Steve’s dorm. He vows to try his damnedest to live in a place like _this_ next year.

When he comes out of the bathroom, he’s immediately accosted by a blue hoodie that comes flying at his face.

“It’s windy,” Bucky laughs, noticing Steve’s disapproving glare. “I’m being nice.”

 _“Thanks.”_ Steve replies, tone dripping with sarcasm. Steve takes the hoodie in both hands and lifts it up to his eyes. He reads the white lettering on the front. “Blue Devils?”

“High school mascot.”

“Hm.” Steve flips the garment around and on the back, in enormous white letters, he reads _‘BARNES’_. He doesn’t say anything—he can’t say anything. Instead, he looks back up at Bucky again. He's leaning back against his pillows, hands behind his head, eyes very deliberately pointed up at the ceiling. He glances over toward Steve and gives a casual half-shrug. “I have about a billion of these from when I played basketball in high school. Won't even miss it.”

 _He wants me to keep it,_ Steve thinks, with quiet awe. He runs his hands over the soft, worn fabric for a moment before he goes to put the hoodie on. It's enormous on him, the sleeves hanging well past his fingertips, but it feels good on his skin. Comfortable. Soft. Warm.

Bucky is sitting up now, eyes fixed on him.  He gives him a thumbs up, smirking just a little bit. “It's a great look. Now people can't even tell you're wearing the same clothes as yesterday.”

“Unless they look.”

“They aren't gonna look too close. Too distracted by your eyes. Makes em look extra blue.”

Steve rolls his eyes and heads for the door, but Bucky stops him. “Hey, Steve, hold up a second.”

He pauses at the door, turned back to face Bucky as he scrambles out of bed. “What?”

Bucky pauses for a moment, eyes cast downward like he's shy. “Can I kiss you? Before you go?”

And really, Steve has no option here but to get on his toes and kiss him, resting his hands on the back of his neck to bring him closer. He can feel him smiling into the kiss.

He takes a moment to just look up into Bucky's eyes as they pull away, smiling back up at him. He brings one hand up to rest on Bucky's cheek, thumb rubbing gently over the skin. “Bye, Buck.”

“See ya later, Stevie.”

For once, Steve basks in the sweet sound of his nickname coming from Bucky’s lips. On the walk back to his dorm, Steve pulls the hoodie close around him, grateful for its warmth.

When he gets back to his dorm, Steve finds Sam sitting at his desk, scribbling furiously in a notebook while glancing back and forth between the notebook and an enormous textbook. He quickly glances up at Steve, smiles, and then turns back to his notebook.

“So,” Sam begins. “How’d it go?”

Steve freezes at the door, spine as straight as a rod. “How… did what go?”

Sam doesn’t even look up from his notes. “Wow. You’re really gonna try and play dumb with me?” Steve still hasn’t left the front of his room, and he’s laid his hand on the door handle like he’s prepared to bolt. “You’re wearing the same clothes. You put _date night_ ice cream on Instagram. How dumb do you think I am?”

Steve gulps before exhaling a shallow breath. “So…I kind of went on a date.”

“Do tell.”

“Don’t make me say this.”

“I’ll wait.”

“You obviously know.”

“Mhm.”

Steve presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, staring at Sam irritably. “I went out on a date. With Bucky. There. _There_.”

Finally, Sam sets his pen down and looks up, wearing a Cheshire Cat grin on his face. “See, was that so hard?”

“He told you.”

“Yeah, before you did.”

“I wasn’t gonna tell you until he told me it was _okay_ to tell you!” Steve frowns. “I didn’t want to make things weird!”

“Funny, that’s the same thing he said,” Sam chuckles. “Dude, I’m fuckin’ with you. I don’t care—y’all are grownups. Do what you want, but not on my futon.”

“We’re not—“

“—I like the hoodie, Steve. Looks good.”

Steve snaps his mouth shut. He walks over to his desk and plops down with a huff. “You’re a jerk.”

Sam laughs again. “Where do you think Bucky gets it from?” he teases. He turns around in his chair to face Steve. “Does anyone else know?”

Steve shakes his head. “No,” He pauses, reconsidering. “Maybe his roommate? I’m not sure. I told my friend Clint that I had feelings for him, but that was—well, that was before I knew he… y’know.”

“I know,” Sam says, nodding slowly. “He’s complicated. But, you know, whatever this is that you two are doing, I think it’s good for him. He’s really coming out of his shell, you know? He never would’ve gone to that SAFE meeting without you.” Sam lifts his shoulder in a half shrug. “You’re helping him a lot.”

Steve lowers his eyes, shaking his head again. “I’m not doing anything.” He’s known Bucky for four months—there’s no way that he’s made any sort of impact on him, not in such a short time. It's not realistic.

“You’re being modest and it’s not necessary. Whether you believe what I’m saying or not is up to you—you’re helping my brother, and I appreciate it. That’s all.”

Steve nods once. “He’s a really great guy. I’m just happy I get to be friends with him.”

Sam nods too and turns back to his desk, diving right back into his work. “He feels the same, trust me.”

Steve catches himself smiling and so he turns around to face his own desk. He pulls his sketchbook from the bottom shelf and opens it; his pencil is right where he left it, on the page where he had drawn Bucky’s hands, for the umpteenth time. He thinks that maybe one day, draw more than his hands, eyes, and mouth; maybe one day he’ll actually ask Bucky if he can draw him.

Later on, Wanda texts Steve to tell him that their professor has cancelled class for the evening. Steve spends the rest of his afternoon sketching. He sketches a picture of Wanda, and thinks maybe he’ll show it to her sometime. Her eyes are absolutely striking—his pencil can’t do them justice. He only stops sketching when Sam turns on one of his documentaries—this time, it’s about the Civil Rights movement. Steve gets so wrapped up in it that he forgets all about his drawing. The two of them end up in a heated discussion about the state of America and, in that moment, Steve realizes that he couldn’t have asked for a better roommate. When T’Challa comes over later, he joins right in; Steve likes him more and more each time they meet.

Sam orders pizza, which T’Challa jokes about, and Darcy shows up because apparently, she “could smell pizza from down the hallway, now move over, because I brought hot Cheetos.” T’Challa has never had hot Cheetos and when he eats them, he instantly regrets expanding his culinary horizons in that direction. Darcy laughs out loud at the despairing grimace on his face and proceeds to finish the bag by herself.  After the documentary is over, T’Challa and Sam start to get cuddly, and Steve takes the hint.

He goes to Darcy’s room with about half the pizza in tow.  She’s already cross legged on the floor, taking her pipe and a small Ziploc baggie out of a Lisa Frank lunchbox.  “Hey! You liberated some pizza!” 

Steve laughs softly, setting the box down on the floor before he takes a seat, leaning back against the very illegal bright green bean bag chair behind him.  “You’re an RA, why do you have one of those?”

“You’re really gonna ask me that right before we smoke?”

“I’m just saying.  We had a floor meeting about this. No bean bag chairs, no inflatable chairs, no hoverboards.”

“Yeah, we did. And I told 321 if they let me take it, I wouldn’t write them up. It’s all good. Here,” she says, handing him the pipe.  She watches him, dark eyes focused and curious, smiling like there’s a question she can’t wait to ask.  He coughs slightly as he hands the pipe back to Darcy, other hand going to the inhaler in his pocket, in need of that reassurance.  He’s gone months without an asthma attack, but he’s always wary.  You don’t spend as much time knocked flat in hospitals without being wary.  

She waits until she’s breathing out her own smoke to ask her question.  “So.  You’ve been all… happy and smiley, lately.  What’s up?”

“Is this for the book?”

Darcy snorts and holds out her empty hands, palms up.  “Do you see a book here, bud?”

“Am I sad normally?”

“Stop answering my questions with questions, you _nerd._ I’m just sayin’... you’ve got a little skip in your step.  All smiley and shit.  Even heard you singing while you were doing your laundry.”

Steve can already feel himself going red.  But he can’t quite bring himself to care as Darcy hands him the pipe again. “I… I had a really good date.”

“Ooooh,” Darcy murmurs, propping her head up on her chin, the very picture of attention.  “A _date?_ With who?  With the mysterious Halloween boy?”

Steve remembers Bucky in that stupid, gorgeous toga, his crown knocked slightly askew.  “Yeah.  Halloween boy.”

Darcy giggles, flopping down on her back next to him.  “Tell me about Halloween boy.  Like, I need details, because right now, I’m just picturing like… you making out with Jack Skellington, and it’s kinda weird.  Making me flashback to my scene kid days.”

“Why are you picturing me making out with anyone, Darcy, that’s weird…”

“Steeeeeeve,” she whines, elbowing him lightly.  He sighs deeply, running a hand through his already messy blonde hair. “He has the worst pizza order in the world.  He can sing.  His eyes are so, _so_ blue.”

“Wow.  Like a Jolly Rancher?  I knew a guy like that once.  He was the worst, but he had pretty eyes.”

“No, like… the ocean.  When it’s cloudy.  And he’s not terrible.  He… he’s so kind. And gentle.  But he keeps it here, like a secret,” he says softly, pressing a hand to his chest, where his scar is.  “Sometimes I think I’m the only one who gets to see him like that.  And it makes me so sad.”

“Aw, buddy.  Why does that make you sad?” Darcy asks, gently patting his shoulder in a soothing gesture.  

“Because… because he feels like he has to hide these good parts of himself. And I just want people to know how good he is.  He’s more than what people want him to be.”

Something is nudging against his leg.  Steve opens his eyes to see Darcy nudging the pizza box towards him. “Pizza. It’s the food of love.”

“I thought that was music.”

“Only people who don’t know their Shakespeare think that. Eat your pizza.”

**________________________________________________________________________________**

The next week passes by and Thanksgiving Break sneaks up on all of them. Bucky spends those last few days scrambling to finish up enough coursework so that he’ll be able to have an actual break. He picks up as many shifts as he can handle and spends his early mornings and late nights in the library. As much as he hates it, he spends much of his week alone, at work or at the library, like he would have, before. Like he always has.

He hates every second of it.

He wishes that he could figure out a way to study and be productive with Steve, but every time they’re together, he can’t concentrate. Whenever Steve comes over, Bucky loses all sense of self-discipline—why spend time studying Chemistry when he could be studying Steve? Bucky’s curiosity and intrigue in Steve is never-ending; there has never been a moment where Bucky looks at him and doesn’t think _wow_.

He's smart enough to know that unless he can reclaim his self-restraint, he should probably take a few steps back. He still texts Steve every day, even goes so far as to send him good-morning texts, which is something that he's _never_ done. But every morning, Steve is the first thing on his mind.

On Tuesday morning, the day before break begins, Bucky gets a text from Steve while he’s at the gym, lifting and working out his frustrations.

_Pixie Stick_

_(8:35) Good morning : ) I know you’ve been super busy but I just wanted to know if you maybe wanted to hang out before we all head home for break? Peggy’s doing dinner at her apartment tonight at 6 and, if you come, I was hoping we could do something on our own after? Let me know._

He texts him back immediately. Of course Bucky wants to see him before break— hell, if their homes weren’t an hour apart, Bucky would try to see him every day during break. However, the drive— and the traffic— between Long Island and Brooklyn is hellish, and he knows that if he makes any attempt to leave home, after not coming home for so long, his parents won't be very happy. His mother will probably give him hell the minute he walks through the door. So spending time with Steve now is probably the best option.

It’s been quite some time since Bucky hung out with Steve and his friends. He really enjoys spending time with them; they seem like great people, and they’ve always been very kind and welcoming to him, whenever Steve brings him around. However, things have changed significantly since the last time they’d all been together. This whole thing with Steve…it’s made everything different.

Bucky tries not to panic over it.

He spends about half an hour more at the gym. After about five sets of thirty Wall Balls, the only thing he can focus on is the weight of his own arms. He showers at the gym, changes into fresh clothes, and heads back to his dorm.

The wind hits hard outside, leaving Bucky questioning just why he decided to pack basketball shorts and a t-shirt in his gym bag, but no hoodie. He half-runs back to his dorm just to get out of the cold. When he arrives, he finds Bruce strategically packing his belongings, rolling his clothes instead of folding them. Bucky has seen Sam do this too—it’s something he learned in the Army. Bucky doesn’t know much about Bruce’s parents because he never talks about them, but he knows this is something he probably learned from them.

“Heading out already?”

Bruce shakes his head as he rolls up a pair of jeans. “Tomorrow morning. Just wanted to get everything packed so I wouldn’t have to worry about it.”

“Going to your folks’?”

“My aunt’s,” Bruce replies. “My parents are out of the country doing who knows what. They can’t ever tell me what it is, anyway.”

“There’s always room at my place, man. My parents love you. Plus, you could give my Pops a run for his money with the whole Science vs. Religion debate.”

“...I do love your mom’s cooking.” Bruce grins.

Bucky smiles and nods. “Everyone loves her cooking.”

Hr walks to his side of the room and empties the contents of his gym bag into his laundry hamper, which is already filled to the brim. The one good thing about going home for break is getting to do laundry for free. And his mom would probably fold it for him too—Bucky can’t remember the last time he’s actually folded clothes. He’s not sure he’s done it since he came to college. If his mother knew that, she’d have a fit.

Following Bruce’s example, Bucky starts packing his things too. His two classes for the day have been cancelled because his professors actually care about their students and know how badly they all want to get home. He has the rest of the morning to get packed before his afternoon desk shift, which is thankfully being cut four hours short so that the RAs can take over. That way, he can actually put on something nice for dinner. It’s not that he’s trying to impress Steve or anything, he...just wants to look and feel his best every time he’s around him.

Bucky takes a short, well deserved nap before his desk shift. When he gets to the desk, he’s more than prepared to get through this shift so that he can see Steve. He finally has to _try_ to put a cap on his excitement when Gabe shows up at the front desk. “What’s up, man? I didn’t know you were working,” he grins, leaning across the desk.

Bucky lifts his shoulder in a half shrug. “I’m always working, dude.”

“True—s’that where you’ve been all this time? ‘Cause no one’s seen you in weeks.”

“Uh,” Bucky rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I’ve just been…really busy. You know, classes, work.”

“Replacing us all with your new friend—what’s his name? Steve, or something?”

“...What?”

“Snapchat, man. He’s been in every one of your snap stories since like, September.” Gabe laughs. “Glad you’re making friends—kinda miffed that we’re getting replaced.”

Bucky forces out a laugh. He feels his face heating up. “No, man. I would never.” He wrings his hands together and tries to breathe through the sudden burst of anxiety in his chest. “Steve’s a cool guy.”

“You should bring him around sometime. Is he thinking about going Greek?”

“Tried it. He’s not interested.”

“That’s too bad,” Gabe shrugs. “Anyway, who are you bringing to Winter Formal? I’m thinking of asking Misty from Kappa O. She is so hot.”

“She’s definitely pretty,” Bucky agrees. “And I don’t know—I was thinking of going solo this year.”

“What?” Gabe asks incredulously. “Come on, you can’t do that. Ask that Sharon girl from Chi Nu—she’s always asking about you. Probably has a thing for you.”

“Maybe.” Bucky has absolutely no intention on asking Sharon, but if it’ll placate Gabe, he’ll say anything.

Gabe shakes his head, pulling his phone out of his pocket and scrolling through his screen. “If you show up without a date, you’ll end up stealing one by accident. Literally every girl I’ve ever met is like, in love with you. It’s annoying. Hate to tell ‘em they’re all barking up the wrong tree.”

Bucky’s breath catches in his throat. “What? What do you mean?” he quickly asks, gripping the edge of the desk so hard that his knuckles go white. It's the only thing grounding him to this moment. Gabe _can’t_ know. There’s no way. Bucky’s heartbeat quickens in his chest as he tries to trace back every single person he’s ever told, every  single mistake he could’ve made. It feels like _years_ before Gabe answers.

Gabe shrugs. “You’re too focused on school to even _look_ at a girl, dude—like, let’s be real. I _wish_ I was like you.”

Bucky lets out a sigh of relief and releases the desk, flexing his fingers. He tries to laugh, tries to brush it off like the joke that it was, but he can’t.

“You probably won’t have a girlfriend until you’re out of med school.”

Bucky laughs again, but it’s empty, hollow, exhausted. “Probably.”

“Anyway, I’m getting ready to head home. You going home for break?”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies. “Haven’t seen my folks in a while.”

“Make sure you tell them I said hi—I miss your mom, dude. She’s the best.”

When Gabe leaves, Bucky has to stand up and take a minute to collect himself, take a minute to pull himself together. _It doesn’t have to be like this_ , he thinks. _If I just told him the truth, it’d be different._ And that’s the first time that Bucky actually _lets_ himself believe that things could be different.

At the end of his shift, Steve shows up with coffee, just like always. They walk to Peggy’s together despite the cold. Steve is bundled up in a fitting gray sweater and a blue scarf. Bucky suddenly imagines himself reaching out, grabbing Steve by his scarf, and pulling him across the front desk for a kiss. He is _always_ thinking about kissing Steve, but that thought is so unrealistic and embarrassing that Bucky shakes his head just to shake away the image.  

“I’m really glad you could make it,” Steve tells him as they’re crossing the street. “I…I kind of missed you, a little.”

“A little?” Bucky  smirks, waggling his eyebrows dramatically, teasing Steve.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Very little.” Bucky always smiles at the way Steve’s face reddens every time he’s embarrassed, always blushing like a teenager.

Bucky smiles, gently elbowing Steve. “I missed you too, punk. My days are so boring when you’re not yapping away in my ear.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Steve deadpans. “Anyway, did you get all your work done? Are you all packed?”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies. “I’m good to go.” Having all of his things squared away makes him feel good, like he’s accomplished something. However, the thought of being gone for so long, being away from Steve...Bucky immediately shuts that down. Closes that door and locks it.

“Good.” Steve nods once, completely oblivious to Bucky’s panic. “So does that mean we can hang out after, maybe?”

“If you want to come over to my dorm, you can.” Bucky tells him. He’s even brave enough to take it a step further. “Bruce will be gone later, so...we’ll have the room to ourselves.” He watches a sweet, slow smile spread across Steve’s face, and it makes his chest flutter, makes his knees weak.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

On the walk to Peggy’s, through the nearly deserted streets, Bucky reaches out and takes Steve’s hand. He doesn’t look over at Steve because he doesn’t need to—he knows that Steve is blushing, knows that he’s smiling. Bucky knows because he’s doing the very same thing.

When they reach Peggy’s apartment, the scent of the food hits Bucky before he actually sees it. His stomach growls loudly, embarrassingly loud, but Steve doesn’t even mention it. He knocks once and waits for someone to answer.

“Peggy must be a great cook,” Bucky says. “That food smells amazing,”

Steve barks out a laugh. “Peggy can’t cook to save her life,” he tells him. “I love her, but she burns everything she touches—”

In that moment, the door flies open, and Peggy’s standing in the doorway, smiling at Steve.

“Badmouthing me already, Steven? Rude.” Peggy pushes Steve out of the way just so she can hug Bucky. He wraps his arms around her, embracing her back for the first time. “Nice to see you, James. And yes, I’m a bloody awful cook, but Natasha isn’t, so your stomach is safe.”

Walking inside, Bucky is overwhelmed by the number hugs they receive when they arrive. Natasha, Clint, Sharon, and Wanda are all standing at the door to greet the two of them, like they’d been waiting this whole time. They are all warm, all smiling, and Bucky can’t remember a time where he felt so _welcome_. The food is already set up in the living room— ham, mashed potatoes, stuffing, green beans, and mac ‘n cheese —it all looks delicious and the whole apartment feels like he always imagined home would feel.

“Shoes off, wash hands, get to the table,” Peggy orders, waving them inside.

Bucky laughs. “Wow, I may have found someone bossier than you,” he jokes, leaning down to whisper to Steve.

Steve playfully pushes Bucky’s forearm. “Don’t be a jerk.”

Peggy shrugs. “He’s not wrong.” Apparently, Bucky wasn't as quiet as he thought he was.

Bucky and Steve wash their hands in the sink together. Steve splashes his wet hands in the water, sprinkling droplets into Bucky’s face. Bucky barks out a laugh and unceremoniously sticks his wet pointer finger into Steve’s ear and Steve shouts, recoils and falls into the counter. Seconds later, Peggy’s shouting into the kitchen about “new wine glasses” and “killing a man” with her bare hands. They do not bump into the counter again.

Minutes later, Sam arrives with T’Challa and gets the same treatment as Bucky and Steve: hugs at the door, take off shoes, wash hands, and go to the table.

“Nice to see you again, Barnes,” T’Challa greets him, smiling thoughtfully.

Bucky claps his hand against T’Challa’s shoulder and smiles. “You too, man.”

Natasha passes out wine glasses as everyone heads to the table. “I want you all to know that I’ll never be cooking this much again.” She grins. “You’re all lucky that Peggs loves you—you should feel grateful and honored. Sit down.”

They eat until they’re stuffed. Natasha guilts them into finishing every bit of food on the table. She tells them, “I slaved over a hot stove all night and put aside all my feminist values to cook a meal for you assholes, now eat.” They do, leaving the table bare and their plates clean.

After dinner—and after about three too many glasses of wine—they all migrate to the living room, where Peggy’s playing music as old as their parents. She’s the first to start dancing, dragging Natasha to the middle of the living room. Natasha goes, albeit reluctantly. Peggy towers over her, even barefoot. She rests her cheek on Natasha forehead and laughs, squeezing her tight. Sam gets up next, pulling T’Challa along, singing obnoxiously loud. T’Challa must find it endearing because he’s laughing and kissing Sam all over.

Watching them makes Bucky’s chest feel tight. He’s sitting next to Steve on the couch, wishing he was brave enough to get up and pull Steve with him, brave enough to dance and kiss him in front of all of his friends.

Midway through the song, Steve slips out of the room, heading back to the kitchen. He doesn't come back.  Peggy hauls Natasha up, letting her wrap her legs around her waist so they can kiss easily, passionately, wildly.

Goddammit. Bucky _wants_ this.

He gets up and slips into the kitchen. Steve is at the sink, elbow deep in the enormous pile of dirty dishes. The song in the living room has changed to a song that Bucky knows well from his high school days at the Wilson house. This song too reminds him of home and makes him ache in ways that he cannot understand. But when he walks up behind Steve, winding his arms around his slender waist, the ache disappears.

Steve makes a soft, surprised noise at the back of his throat. “Bucky, what—”

“Dance with me,” he murmurs, hooking his chin over Steve’s shoulder.

“Bucky,” Steve sighs softly, but he's already rinsing off his hands, wiping them off on a clean dish towel, abandoning the sink full of suds. Bucky walks them backwards, then lets go so he can spin Steve around.

It starts out goofy, the two of them making exaggerated expressions as they mouth lyrics, giggling through the first verse. Then Steve takes hold of Bucky's hands and dances him backwards, toward the living room. Bucky barely notices. He's too focused on Steve’s bright smile. He wants—he _needs_ to be close to Steve. He guides Steve’s hands up to his shoulders, slides his own to the small of his back.

He barely notices that he's singing to Steve, almost too soft to hear.

**___________________________________________________________________________  
**

In the midst of the party and the drunken dancing, Peggy stealthily drags Natasha from the living room, down the hall, and straight into her bedroom. She closes the door behind them, falls back against it and presses her hand to her chest, as composedly as possible.

“It’s _him_.” She whispers.

Natasha tilts her head to the left, confused. “I’m sorry?”

“James. _James._ It’s James. He’s the one—he’s the _one_!”

Natasha mouths the word _‘oh’_ and nods slowly. “… I know, Peggs.”

“ _What?_ ”

“They’ve been making eyes at each other since September.”

Peggy’s mouth falls open, eyes wide with shock. “ _They_ broke my jewelry rack.”

“I know.”

“They’re _dancing_!”

“I know.”

“Steve has a _boy_ , Natasha!”

“I know, Peggs.”

**_________________________________________________________________________**

_Clint:_  
_(8:45) steve i s2g when you get this message you need to text me like???_  
_(8:45) wtf man what the hell_  
_(8:45) YOU SAID HE WAS STRAIGHT_  
_(8:45) THE VAULT HAS BEEN COMPROMISED_

_Nat  
(8:40) Good job, Stevie. Finally, btw. _

_Wanda:_  
_(8:59) Steve!! It's been James this whole time??_

 _Sharon:_  
_(9:00) Barnes. it's Sharon._  
_(9:01) You know, you could've SAID something._  
_(9:01) I cannot BELIEVE_  
_(9:01) Lips are sealed, btw._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you all for reading! Comments and kudos always make me the happiest! :)  
> Find me on tumblr: queerimagination.tumblr.com


	14. Chapter 14

Steve plops down on a metal bench near the the parking lot of his dorm. He clutches his duffle bag to his chest and pulls his laundry bag up beside him, trying to shield himself from the chilly autumn winds. The sun is out, but it’s caught behind the clouds, leaving the ground cold. Steve checks his phone to see how long ago that Clint said he was “on the way.”

As soon as he opens his phone though, he gets a text from Bucky, one that leaves him rolling his eyes and laughing. He texts back immediately and finds himself wishing that he were warm and in bed with Bucky, instead of waiting for Clint, outside in the cold. Steve tucks his phone into his jeans and pulls his sweater around him. Clint doesn’t show up for another four minutes. When he finally arrives, Steve hurriedly throws his belongings into the back seat then climbs into the passenger’s side.

“Sorry, man— car’s still warming up,” Clint tells Steve as he pulls on his seatbelt. “Give it a minute.”

“This place is too windy,” Steve frowns, sighing into his seat and folding his arms over his chest with a huff. “Home’s probably no better.”

“Hey— _hey_ , why are you so grumpy?”

“Am I not always grumpy?”

Clint rolls his eyes dramatically, throwing his whole head into it. “You’re like, exceptionally disgruntled right now, lil’ guy.” Clint pulls out of the parking lot, silent for just a few moments. But slowly, he begins to sport the tiniest of smiles. “I get it.”

Steve glances over at him, still sour in the face. “Get what?”

“You’re gonna miss your boy.”

“He’s not… that.”

“You didn’t say I was wrong, though.” Clint grins as he tilts his head, eyeing Steve knowingly. “We’re talking about this, whether you like it or not.”  He runs several stop signs on their way to the main road. Steve takes a moment to make sure that his seatbelt is secure.

“You compromised the integrity of the vault, dude.”

“Clint…”

“How could you not _tell_ me?”

Steve rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t tell anyone.”

Clint drives with one hand on the wheel and one in the air. “I don’t understand?”

Folding his hands in his lap, Steve takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “Bucky… he’s not out.”

 _“What?”_ Clint asks, taking his eyes off the road to stare at Steve. “He’s in the closet?”

“Yes.” Steve answers matter-of-factly. He doesn’t make eye contact with Clint, he just stares out of his window, watching the town whizz past, buildings blurred. “I think he’s only out to Sam, his roommate, me... I don’t know. We haven’t really talked about it.”

“Are you two like, exclusive?”

“No,” Steve quickly answers, almost too quickly. He watches Clint’s eyebrows go up immediately. Steve turns his eyes to the window again, trying to ignore the feeling of his heart beating fervently in his chest. He’s thought about this once or twice, about actually dating Bucky. Maybe it’s farfetched, but it doesn’t stop Steve from hoping.

“Oh,” Clint nods once. He makes a sharp turn at the end of the road, speeding up to reach the highway ramp. He looks at Steve again, completely ignoring the road. “Wait a minute—isn’t he in a fraternity? Don’t his brothers know?”

Steve shakes his head again. “They don’t.” He thinks back to all of the times that he’s encountered Bucky around his brothers-- unsmiling, tight-lipped with rigid shoulders, and hands shoved deep into his pockets. When he’s around them, he’s someone else, not the person Steve knows. “I think he’s just…scared, maybe? We don’t talk about that a lot, either. It’s like…I think he doesn’t want to tell them because he thinks they won’t accept him anymore.”

“They probably won’t,” Clint responds dryly. “Fraternities aren’t exactly singin’ kumbaya when it comes to being anything other than straight.”

“That just doesn’t make any sense to me,” Steve presses on, mouth drawn into a frown. “If the whole stupid organization is built on brotherhood, then why would they disown someone for that? Isn’t this a lifetime thing? Isn’t it?” Skin hot, Steve can almost _feel_ his blood pressure rising.

“Frats aren’t real homo-friendly, bud. Nothing is, when it’s run by only dudes.” Clint sighs heavily as he presses the gas pedal, speeding up the car. Steve bites his tongue, keeps his frustration inside because he doesn’t trust himself to say the right things. Clint speaks instead. “Your boy probably needs saved.”

“Saved?” Steve turns to look at Clint, who’s finally watching the road. “What do you mean?”

Clint pauses, jaw jutting forward as he thinks. “…so, remember when I used to play football back in junior high?” he asks in a quiet, steady voice.

Steve drums his fingers against his own thigh. “Yeah… I haven’t thought about that in _forever_. But what’s that got to do with this?”

Clint lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “I’ve been subconsciously erasing it from everyone’s memory for years,” he jokes, but his voice doesn’t sound like he’s joking. “I was the best. Most dedicated. MVP. All that bullshit— and I was miserable. I was fuckin’ miserable.”

“I remember.” Steve’s voice is almost a whisper. Clint moved from Iowa to Brooklyn, where he became the star of their school’s football team in junior high. One would think that popularity and talent would’ve made Clint happy, but that had never been the case.

“And I stayed because I felt like I had something to prove.” Clint’s hands are tightly wrapped around the steering wheel, squeezing. “And all those guys, they were like brothers to me. But there was no way in hell that I was gonna tell them that I liked guys. The word ‘bisexual’ never even existed to those dudes. So I didn’t tell anyone. It felt like suffocating, every single day. Like… drowning, you know? It was terrible, and I didn’t have anyone to talk to about it— not until I met you guys.”

“Clint…”

“I mean it,” Clint insists, slowly shaking his head. “Meeting you and Nat was like a breath of fresh air, man. It was like, _wow_ I’m not the only person who’s like this. I’m not the only person who feels like this. I remember one day in eighth grade when we were all in Nat’s room watching Degrassi or some shit, and you were just casually talking about how you had this huge fuckin’ crush on _Jesse McCartney_ , and I was just… that was it, for me. And I felt okay. I felt right, for once.”

In the small silence that follows Clint’s words, Steve smiles as he finally puts the pieces together. “And then you quit the team. I remember— the start of ninth grade, one day you were just done.”

Clint shrugs. “Well, sort of.” Steve raises an eyebrow and Clint lets out a short sigh. “I quit right after I came out to one of my best friends there. He blabbed to the whole team— you can figure out the rest from there. Nat knew, but I never told you because you would’ve opened a can of twenty-pound, righteous whoop-ass on them and honestly, it wouldn’t have been warranted.”

“It would’ve been _so_ warranted.”

Clint actually laughs at that. “I knew you’d say that,” He grins. “I’m saying all this mushy bullshit to say that it’s probably good that Bucky has you— probably good that he has all of us, now. Going through life thinking you’re the only person in the world who feels something, or wants something… it’s miserable, dude. It is.”

Steve knows that he was privileged enough to have friends who accepted him, to have parents who loved him and maybe even loved him more after being brave enough to come out. His mother is and has always been his biggest supporter, going above and beyond the call when it came to supporting Steve.  She’s the epitome of a PFLAG parent, and she’s got the stickers to prove it.  His dad had struggled at first. For Joseph Rogers, Steve’s coming out had been confusing. It had been difficult, not because he didn’t accept Steve, exactly, but because it was difficult for him to wrap his mind around the fact that his _son_ might have a _boyfriend_ . Once he saw how _happy_ Steve was after he came out, it all fell into place. Joseph learned everything he could so that he could support and protect his son. He had never hesitated to stand up for Steve, not even to his own very Catholic relatives.

There had never been a time when Steve felt _wrong_ , or alone, or unloved. And now, he thinks of Bucky, who struggles to identify even though it’s clear that he wants to. Bucky, who’s too shy or too scared to even hold Steve’s hand in public, who isn’t even out to his parents yet— it’s obvious that he wants these things, evident that he’s reaching out, and Steve wonders just how long he’d gone without anyone to talk to, how long he’d gone without a breath of fresh air.

“I think…I really care about him.”

Clint nods. “Yeah.” The car accelerates just the slightest bit until Clint’s hands relax against the steering wheel. “Just be there. Be a good friend, man. It’s what I needed— it’s what most people need.”

Finally, Clint puts music on, some indie rock band that Steve’s never heard of, but Clint is fond of. Steve drags his hands along his face, sighing deeply.

“You should hang out with him over break or something.”

Steve shrugs, watching the outside again. “I don’t know,” he says. “I mean, he lives in Long Island, and that’s a drive, even on days with no traffic.”

“That sounds like an excuse if I’ve ever heard one,” Clint quips. “It’s an hour, dude. We drive like six to get back home.”

“Ugh,” Steve groans. “I don’t know— I don’t know if now’s the right time for… I don’t know.”

“I’m not telling you to meet his damn parents, christ. Chill.” Clint laughs. “You must really like this dude; I haven’t seen this wound-up since the first time you touched Peggy’s boob. That was _something_.”

“Are we just throwing the vault open, now?”

“You started it.”

Steve laughs loudly, playfully elbowing Clint who then dramatically swerves the car to the left. Steve grabs the handle on the roof and thanks god that they are the only people on the road right now.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Your ticker is like, brand spankin’ new. You’re fine.”

“That’s not funny.”

“But it’s true.”

“If you kill me, you have to answer to my mother. Reflect on that.”

For the rest of his time driving, Clint drives very carefully. Once Steve doesn’t feel like Clint’s putting his life on the line, he tries to get some sleep.

After Peggy’s dinner last night, he went back to Bucky’s dorm, cuddled up on his bed with him to watch a movie.  It hadn’t taken long for things to escalate, and… well. Steve hadn't expected more than kissing. He ended up going back to his dorm and staying up until at least three in the morning cleaning the room with Sam and packing all of his things. Sam finished first and was in bed at least an hour before Steve. Steve wished that he would’ve done the cleaning and packing earlier than the night before; he would’ve much rather have spent his night with Bucky, than spending it getting ready to leave. He feels like he didn’t even get to say goodbye properly, and that bothers him in ways he’s not ready to understand quite yet. Nevertheless, Clint was right—Steve is definitely going to miss Bucky.

After about three hours, they switch off at a rest stop. Clint gets into the passenger’s side and covers his face with a hoodie, mumbling _don’t kill us_ under his breath as Steve climbs behind the wheel.

The hours seem to fly past. After driving through toll road after toll road, the familiar Brooklyn skyline comes into view. Giddiness rises in Steve’s chest and he starts driving just the slightest bit faster. As he drives farther into the city, even the onslaught of traffic doesn’t deter him. He haphazardly weaves through the city streets, ignoring all the middle fingers and honking horns he garners. Already, Steve remembers what it’s like being a driver in the city—nothing like a college town to make him miss home.

They go to his mom’s apartment complex first. Steve parallel parks—horribly—in front of the building and shakes Clint awake.

“Wow, I thought I was gonna wake up dead.” Clint groans, stretching arms with his elbows still bent.

Steve rolls his eyes. “You can’t wake up and still be dead, jerk. My driving isn’t that bad.”

“Nat taught you how to drive. It _is_ that bad,” Clint chuckles. Steve takes the keys out of the ignition and throws them at Clint, where they hit him square in the chest. “Let’s get your shit and see your mom. I’m sure she’s dyin’ up there.”

Clint carries Steve’s duffle bag up the three flights of stairs that lead to the apartment door. Steve lugs his laundry basket all the way up, lightning fast, ignoring his tired lungs and legs. He drops his laundry bag at the door and pulls his keys out of his back pocket to unlock the door. But as soon as he presses the key into the lock, the door flies open.

Sarah Rogers stands in the threshold with her wild, strawberry blonde hair and her glistening eyes. Steve stands upright and grins widely as his mother bounds out of the apartment and wraps her tiny arms around him, squeezing.

“Don’t you ever, ever stay gone for four months again, Steven—do you hear me?”

Steve purses his lips to keep from laughing but he nods and hugs his mother tighter. “I hear you, Ma.”

“You too, Clint!” Sarah glances over at him, wagging a finger in his direction. “The both of you need to learn how to call!”

“Yes ma’am,” Clint nods. Sarah kisses Steve’s cheek and then reaches over to Clint, pulling him into a tight hug too. “Thank you for bringing him home.”

Clint grins and gives Sarah a big squeeze. “Anytime.”

Together, Steve and Clint drag Steve’s things inside and into his bedroom. Steve is almost shocked by the size of his own room when he walks in—the room he shares with Sam is so tiny that he forgot what it was like to actually have space. He takes it all in, staring at the walls covered in his Dad’s paintings, and some of his own, at the ceiling covered in constellations from his childhood—Steve didn’t realize just how much he’d missed home until this very moment.

“Clint, are you staying? If you boys are hungry, I can whip something up!” Sarah calls. Steve’s mouth starts to water at the very mention of his mother’s cooking. After eating campus food for months, a home cooked meal might change his life.

Clint struts over toward Sarah, who’s already in the kitchen putting on her pink _“Best Mom Ever”_ apron, one that Steve picked out for her when he was six. Clint hugs her again, squeezing her tiny frame.

“I wish I could stay,” he tells her, frowning. “But I gotta get to my Dad’s. We’re heading up to Aunt Tina’s for the holiday, and she and dad don’t get along real well—I gotta mediate.”

Sarah pats Clint on the back and sighs with a smile. “You’re welcome here anytime, you know that. Make sure you stop by again before the break is over.”

“Will do,” He tells her. “I’ll drag the girls along with me,” Clint looks past Sarah and eyes Steve mischievously, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Hey, Stevie—you should invite Sam and Bucky too, yeah?”

“Sam’s your roommate, right?” Sarah chimes in. “Who’s Bucky?”

“ _Bye_ , Clint.”

Steve nearly _pushes_ him out the door, and Clint manages to sneak in a hug and a “see you later—bye Mama Rogers!” before Steve shuts it. He listens to Clint laughing all the way down the hall. Steve leans against the door, tired. He looks up at his mother, who’s smiling in her frilly pink apron, hands clasped at her chest. Steve pushes off from the door and walks back over to his mother, arms outstretched. She embraces him again, longer this time. Steve buries his face in her wild hair, which carries a familiar, sweet scent. Steve feels warm all over, basking in his mother’s glow.

“I’m so glad you’re home, kid.” Sarah whispers, still hugging Steve.

Steve grins. “I’m glad to be home,” he tells her.

Sarah takes a step back, still holding onto Steve’s forearms, and gives him a onceover. “You actually put some weight on!” she exclaims, playfully pinching his arms. “And you’re _tan_ —you look healthy!”

“Must be my steady diet of pizza.”

“Should I be concerned about your eating habits?”

“There’s lots of other things you should be concerned about—don’t sweat the small stuff.”

Sarah rolls her eyes at Steve with a heavy sigh. “I’m not going to ask,” she says. She walks into the kitchen and begins rummaging through the fridge. “Are you hungry? I’ll make you a grilled cheese—cut the corners off, just how you like. Will that hold you over until dinner? I was thinking we could go out to your favorite restaurant.” Sarah rambles on and on and Steve can’t help but grin. Nostalgia washes over him as he listens to the cadence of his mother’s voice, cheerful and full of warmth. Her voice sounds like home.

**_________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

The drive to Long Island isn’t as much of a nightmare as it could have been, all things considered.  It helps that Sam snags the aux cord as soon as he gets in the car, before he even buckles his seat belt.  “I’m not listening to your fuckin’ emo shit all the way back home, man, not a chance.”

“I listen to other things now,” Bucky says, but it’s only a half-hearted protest, a part of the good-natured arguments of siblings.  

“Kesha. You listen to Kesha now.  But unless you got to spend more time with Steve than I know about, you’re only gonna listen to like, the most emo-ass Kesha songs. And I can’t listen to ‘Dancing With Tears In My Eyes’ all the way back home.  I can’t do it. Here, just let me try and expand your horizons.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but he laughs as he puts the car into gear and hits the gas, speeding them away from campus. Sam waits until they’re on the freeway to ask him another question.  “So… what did you and Steve do last night?”

He can feel his face getting red and guilty, even though he hasn’t answered Sam’s question.  “I-- we just-- we watched a movie, that’s all. He offered to stay, but… I still had packing to do.”

When he glances over, Sam is just looking at him, eyebrows raised.  “It took you a whole night to toss a toothbrush and your dirty laundry in a bag?”

“... yes?”

“I know your car’s disgusting, but it doesn’t usually smell like bullshit.”

Bucky has no retort for that.  He just sighs heavily and takes one hand off the wheel to run it back through his hair.  It’s… it’s stupid, is what it is.  He _knows_ that.  He knows it real well.  There was nothing stopping him from asking Steve to stay. Not a goddamned thing but him and his fucked up head and bad memories.  He wants to say yes.  To ask for what he wants.  But whenever it matters, he just locks up.  And he does the only thing he knows how to do.  He lies.

He’s so tired of lying.

When he looks over again, Sam is still looking at him. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Bucky clenches his jaw and shakes his head.  Sam seems to accept that, for the moment. Instead of prying, he cranks up the volume of the Nicki Minaj song playing and shoves at Bucky’s shoulders until he joins him in yelling the lyrics.

When they make it to Long Island, the tension starts creeping up his back and into his shoulders again.  He hasn’t been here in so long.  He already knows he’s in trouble.  The anxiety has his stomach clenched in an impossible knot long before he actually turns down their street, or pulls into their driveway.

The big pots of marigolds on the porch are new.  So are the long, winding flowerbeds along the front walk-- bare now for winter, but he can practically see Darlene out here in the spring, fussing over the first blooms, like she always wanted.  He remembers their window box in the city, how she would talk to him about photosynthesis as she tended the little flowers and herbs.

If anyone deserves a garden like this, it’s Darlene Wilson.

Sam is out of the car as soon as Bucky puts it in park, laundry bag over his shoulder as he bounds up the front steps.  Bucky has to take a minute, gripping his duffel bag as tight as possible.  Then he follows Sam into the house.

Darlene is at the dining room table, laptop in front of her, half a dozen books and binders scattered beside her.  She gets up immediately and yanks Sam into a hug.  Bucky thinks about ducking out, but he doesn’t.  He just hangs there, in the doorway, leaning up against the frame and watching them.  

She catches sight of him and gives him a curious glance over the top of her glasses.  “Now who’s this stranger you’ve brought in my home, Sam?”

Sam shrugs even as he grins.  “Dunno, Ma. Some rando who offered to give me a ride home.  You got room, right?”

“We could find somewhere to put him up, I’m sure.  Maybe in your dad’s office.”

“Speaking of which, where _is_ Pop?”

Darlene throws up her hands in exasperation.  “Told me we were gonna try his new recipe for twice baked mashed potatoes for dinner tomorrow, then came home from the store without any damn potatoes.  He’ll  be home eventually. Well. Come here,” she says, beckoning Bucky forward for a hug.  He steps forward the same way he always does and always has-- like he’s not sure if he’s really allowed.  She hugs him like she always does and always has-- like she wants to keep him safe.

“Your hair’s so long!”

“I’m… trying a new thing.”

“It looks alright.  I like the ponytail. Neat, but casual. Come on, Sam.  Help me put up the air mattress for your brother.”

Bucky picks up Sam’s laundry bag and slings it over his shoulder to take it to the mudroom. The least he can do is get the laundry going. He has Sam’s towels piled in the machine when the door opens.

“Last bag of potatoes in Suffolk county, I tell you-- had to go every damn place, every damn place--”  Paul Wilson is kicking off his boots and shrugging out of his coat the best he can without letting go of the potatoes.  

Bucky laughs, holding out a hand for the hard won vegetables. “Well, that’s what happens when you wait until the day before Thanksgiving to buy them.”

Paul looks surprised for a moment, and that-- that hurts Bucky, somewhere between his throat and his spine, somewhere he can’t quite name.  But he hands over the bag.  “You’re here. Good, I need your help with something.”

“Okay, sure! What?”

“Gotta get your help peeling these potatoes. You’re the only one who can.”

“Sam can’t peel potatoes?”

Paul raises an eyebrow.  “You’d like to have at least _some_ mashed potatoes, wouldn’t you?”

Bucky laughs.  “Yeah. I would.”

“Then you’re the one for the job. We can do that tonight and just put them in the refrigerator. Too chaotic in the kitchen tomorrow.”

He follows Paul up to the kitchen and takes his usual seat at the table, carefully peeling potatoes.  Paul hums softly to himself as he thumbs through a book at the place across from Bucky.  The silence is comfortable and safe. Like it always is with the Wilsons.

“So. How’ve you been, Bucky?  You look better.  Still too skinny, but that’s that dining hall food, I guess.”

“I’ve been working out,” Bucky protests, gesturing with the potato peeler.  Paul just gives him a skeptical look.  “You never answered my question.”

“My grades are all As and a C right now, but there’s still time, I can pull that up--”

“I didn’t ask how your grades were. I asked how _you_ were.”

The question catches Bucky off guard. It always does, even though he really should have been expecting that.  “I’m-- I’m doing okay.  Doing better. I’ve just-- I’ve had to work a lot. It’s why I haven’t been able to come back.”

“Are you taking care of yourself?”

“I’m trying.”  He _is,_ he really is, but it still feels like a lie.  He looks down at his work, concentrating on that to avoid Paul’s gaze.  The silence settles around them, less comfortably than before.  He did the wrong thing. Like always.

But nothing bad happens.  Paul goes back to his book, humming to himself again.  Almost all the potatoes are peeled before he speaks again.  “You know… that you can talk to me about things, right?”

Bucky sits up like he’s been shocked, then immediately tries to act like he didn’t.  “I-- what do you mean?” he asks, trying to force his voice to be casual.  It almost works.

“You can talk to me about stuff.  Stuff that’s going on now, or maybe that happened in the past, either way… I don’t always know the right thing to say, ask your mother.  But I’ll always listen.”

Bucky wants what he’s always wanted.  He wants to stop pretending, he wants to tell the truth, he wants to just _be_.  The words are all there, stuck just beyond his reach.  He can feel the weight of them, heavy and unspoken in his throat.  He’s been quiet too long.  He knows that.  But he needs-- he needs time.  

_Now’s your chance._

“I… I know that. I just… I can’t right now.”

Paul reaches across the table and gently rests a hand on Bucky’s wrist.  “Okay. Okay.  But when you’re ready.”

Bucky nods, blinking rapidly as he stares at the potato in his hands.  The quiet is comfortable again, slowly warming up between them.  He lets out a soft, startled laugh when Paul pokes him gently in the shoulder.  “Hey.  Finish up those potatoes.  What’re you doing, waiting for ‘em to say ‘mama?’”

**_________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

 

After dinner, Steve and his mom come home with an armful of leftovers. Steve stuffs them into the fridge, which is already full to the brim with food to be prepared for thanksgiving. His stomach flutters at the thought— turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, mac & cheese— even though they just ate, Steve is making himself hungry all over again.

“I’m feeling Disney!” Sarah calls from the living room. Steve can already hear her rummaging through the DVD bin beside the TV stand. “ _Pinocchio_?”

Steve pops out of the kitchen and shakes his head. “No— popcorn?”

“Of course, honey— _Pocahontas_?”

“Historically offensive— _Hercules_?”

“Just watched it two days ago. _Tarzan_?”

Steve pauses, setting the bag of popcorn into the microwave and pressing start. He nods. “ _Tarzan_.”

While the popcorn pops and his mom sets up the movie, Steve goes to his room to change out of his street clothes. He has to unpack his bag just to find a pair of sweatpants and, as he’s searching, he uncovers something that makes his heart do a flip.

He picks up Bucky’s cotton _Blue Devils_ hoodie, holding carefully it with both hands, like it’s something precious. Even though he’s worn it once— twice, he’ll admit that— it still smells distinctly of Bucky, warm and earthy. His scent gives Steve goosebumps that he will never admit to having. It’s been hours since he’s talked to Bucky and he misses him already, a dull ache in his chest that’s been nudging him since he got into the car with Clint this morning. With a quiet sigh, Steve slips the hoodie over his head. It hangs down past his waist and wrists, drowning him. He brings the sleeves up to his face, inhaling slowly, and Bucky’s scent grows even stronger. What he wouldn’t give to have Bucky next to him.

“Sweetheart, hurry— movie’s starting.”

Steve lets his arms fall to his sides. “That’s because you skipped all the previews!”

“These previews are from 1999, Steve!”

Steve emerges from his room and walks into the mini kitchen, retrieving the popcorn. “It’s the principle of the thing— you can’t just skip the previews,” he says as he pours the popcorn into a big clear bowl. Steve never skips the previews— a habit he picked up from his dad. He always loved the previews, always got excited for them, even if he’d seen them before.

“Mom’s got work in the morning, kiddo— every minute matters. Now come sit.”

Sarah is already on the couch, hair pinned up, wrapped in a blue snuggie, with two cans of coke in hand. Steve plops down beside her on the couch, curling his legs underneath him. His mother hands him a can of Coke and her eyes linger on him for just a moment longer than normal. Immediately, Steve knows what’s coming.

“Blue Devils?” Sarah’s eyebrows go up. “Where’d this come from?”

“A friend,” Steve quickly says. “It’s a friends. A friend— left it. In my dorm, he left it.”

Sarah smiles, eyeing her son curiously. “A friend?”

Steve closes his eyes for just a moment, taking a deep breath as he weighs his options. He could fib— he _could_ . Just tell his mother it’s nothing, move on, and watch the movie. Or, he could tell the truth— he could tell her about Bucky, and _finally_ let loose everything he’s been holding inside since the moment he met him. This is his Mom, for goodness’ sake. Steve has always told her everything— hell, he told her about the first time he had sex. Just came home after spending the night at Peggy’s, dropped his backpack on the kitchen floor, and said “I had sex?” like it was a question, like he was confused. And all she said was “I figured that would happen” and “Be smart about it.”

He can tell her about Bucky— he _should_ tell her about Bucky.

“So…” Steve begins, turning to his mother. “I… well, I think-- I think I met someone?”

Sarah tries to keep a controlled expression, but Steve sees right through that, sees the excitement behind her eyes immediately. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Steve nods once. “He’s a guy. Um, my roommate--”

“-- he’s your roommate?”

“No-- _no_. Sam is my roommate, Ma. Sam introduced me to him, kind of? They’re brothers. He’s my roommate’s brother.”

Sarah brings her legs up onto the couch and faces Steve, sitting cross legged with her hands between her legs. “Well, what’s his name, sweetheart?”

Absentmindedly tugging at the ends of the _Blue Devils_ hoodie, Steve smiles. “James-- but he goes by Bucky. He… well he’s Pre-Med-- he wants to be a doctor. Work with kids, I think,” Steve’s smile widens just a bit more. “We met at this stupid party and, god-- he was wearing the worst outfit I could possibly imagine. And I almost _threw up_ on him--”

“ _What_? Steven.”

“... I was drinking. A lot. Blame Natasha.”

“I always do,” Sarah shakes her head. “So go on-- you met him at a dumb party and he was poorly dressed.”

“He’s usually poorly dressed-- he’s a frat boy.” Steve laughs, remembering all of Bucky’s ridiculous bro tanks and snapbacks. “And for a while, I didn’t actually know that he even… well, he’s not out yet, so I didn’t know that he liked me for a long time. But he does. And… I like him a lot. We went out on a date last week and it was really, _really_ nice, Ma.”

Sarah’s grin is wide now, unabashed excitement showing on her face. “And he’s a good guy? You’re sure he’s a good guy?”

Steve quickly nods. “He’s a good guy. Probably a better guy than he actually thinks he is,” He sighs, smiling still. “He’s so… kind, Ma. One of the kindest people I’ve met in a long time. He always thinks of everyone else before himself. He’s thoughtful, and sweet, and _good_.” Catching himself saying too much, Steve presses his lips together and breathes for a silent moment. When he looks up at his mother again, he allows his smile to return. “So, yeah. I met someone.”

“You met someone.” Sarah says, matter-of-factly. “Where’s he from?”

“Here-- well, he lived in Harlem for a while with his family. They live in Long Island now.”

“Really? You should invite him over for dinner.”

“No.” Steve shakes his head, holding out one hand. “I...don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s not-- we’re not-- we’re just?”

“Not the right time?”

“Yeah.” Steve sighs. His mom has always had a knack for reading him. Much better than his Dad had ever been able to.

Sarah nods knowingly, patting Steve on the knee. “I’m happy for you, sweet pea. I really am. You sound like you’re happy. You _look_ happy.”

“I am, I think?” He _is_ happy. Of course he is-- every time he thinks of Bucky he smiles, and his chest aches in all the best ways. Whenever he’s _with_ Bucky, Steve always feels _right_ , like it’s exactly where he wants to be, where he needs to be. Finally, Steve sighs and clasps his hands together, turning back toward the movie. “I hope he sticks around.”

Sarah takes the hint. She turns toward the screen again too, with a smile curling the edges of her mouth. “He’ll stick around--it’s hard not to love you, kid.”  

Steve sits silently, hoping that his mother is right.

She falls asleep toward the end of the movie, snoring lightly through the last fifteen minutes. Steve hates to wake her, but he knows how grumpy she’ll be in the morning if she falls asleep on the couch. He’s seen _that_ before. So, Steve gently shakes his mother awake before slowly leading her back to her bedroom. He doesn’t turn on the lights because he knows the layout of the room by heart, even in the dark. She hasn’t changed it since his Dad died; she still sleeps on the right side of the bed, still keeps his side of the room clean as a whistle. Steve never mentions it, because he knows it’s a sore spot. She still misses him--she always will.

Sarah climbs into bed--the right side--and Steve covers her with the blanket.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” She mumbles sleepily. “Go get some rest, okay? I love you.”

“I love you too, Ma. Sleep tight.”

Steve walks out of the room and shuts the door as softly as possible. He starts cleaning the living room, picking up the spilt popcorn, throwing away the Coke cans,  turning off the TV and returning the DVD to its rightful place in the bin. He turns off all the lights and then goes back to his own bedroom. As soon as he sits down on the bed and gets comfortable, his phone vibrates in the pocket of the jeans he’d taken off earlier--he hadn’t even realized it wasn’t on him, all this time. He rummages through the pockets until he finds it and pulls it out. He breathes a happy sigh when he sees the text from Bucky, and he responds lightning fast.

_Bucky_

_(9:00) hey i kno its kinda late  
(9:01) but are u awake _

_  
(9:02) Yeah. I just finished watching a movie with my mom. What’s up?_

  
_(9:04) nothing i just thought we should talk_  
_(9:04) not like that_  
_(9:04) we just haven’t talked all day_  
_(9:04) so yeah_

_  
(9:05) I know what you meant lol Can I call you?_

Bucky tells him yes. Steve dials Bucky’s number and the phone starts ringing. For some reason, the anticipation makes Steve antsy. He hops out of bed and once he’s on his feet, he starts pacing his room. When Bucky answers with a low “Hey”, Steve has to stop just to take a deep breath.

“Hey,” Steve replies. “How’s home?” He pulls the end of sleeve of Bucky’s hoodie around his hands.

“Home’s good,” Bucky says. “I peeled potatoes with my Pops for about an hour. It was...good. How’s home for you?”

“Good,” Steve answers, then kicks himself for saying ‘good’ when he could’ve chosen any other adjective. “It’s been fun-- Ma took me to my favorite restaurant, then we came home and watched _Tarzan_ together.”

“Oh! I think I’ve seen that one,” Bucky exclaims, and Steve can almost imagine what his smile must look like. The thought of it makes him smile himself. “I liked that one.”

“We should watch it together sometime.”

“I’d like that.” Steve hears Bucky sigh on the other line. He clutches his phone just a little tighter. “It’s… weird. Not seeing you, I mean. I-- yeah.”

“Yeah,” Steve paces around his bedroom, rubbing circles into the rug. “I might actually miss you. Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Mhmm.”

Bucky lets out a short laugh. “I… I’m sitting out on my parents’ deck, staring up at the sky and the stars and it’s real pretty out here, you know? No city lights to ruin it. And… I kept thinking about you. All this pretty stuff around me, and I just kept thinkin’ of you. So...you know, I might miss you too.”

Steve stops in the middle of his room, phone clasped to his ear. He grins and covers his mouth with the other hand, shutting his eyes.

“That was… you’re really sweet, Buck.”

“Don’t make it a thing-- don’t make a thing out of it.”

Steve chuckles. “I won’t, I swear.” He walks back over to his bed and plants himself, cross legged on top of the comforter. “How’s Sam?”

“Still inside, talking to Mom about T’Challa-- can’t shut up about the guy.”

“I told my mother about you,” Steve blurts out, words tumbling all over.

Bucky is quiet for a moment and, for the three seconds that he doesn’t speak, Steve reaches a full panic. What if he did the wrong thing? What if Bucky didn’t want anyone else to know, especially not Steve’s mother, who he’s never even met?

“I’m so sorry--”

“You told your mom about, _me_?” Bucky says, incredulously.

Steve pauses. “I… did. Yeah.

“Wow. I… that’s. Um,” Steve listens closely, not wanting to miss a thing that Bucky says. “So… when I was dating my ex, he never uh… well, he never told his parents about me.” Bucky pauses. “They never even knew I existed. And you and me aren’t even...” Bucky’s voice trails off.

Steve aches for him, in that moment. No one deserves to feel like that, to feel hidden, like a dirty secret. Especially not Bucky. If Steve ever meets Bucky’s ex, he’s really gonna let this guy have it, no questions asked.

“Well my mother knows, and she almost… well she told me I should invite you to thanksgiving dinner-- I told her it was too soon.” He laughs, trying to shake off the awkwardness of his confession.

Bucky laughs too. “Yeah, but… you know, I appreciate the offer. That’s real nice of her. I’ll bet your moms a great person.”

“She is,” Steve says. “Maybe you can meet her sometime-- you know, if that’s something you ever want to do. No pressure. I’m just saying.”

“I’d really like to meet your mom someday, Steve.”

They spend the rest of the night on the phone. Steve watches the hours on his old analog clock tick away, past midnight, 1am, 2am, and so on. He plugs his phone into the wall socket just so it won’t die, just so he can stay on the phone. Talking to Bucky is easy, comfortable, and fun. The sound of his voice makes Steve feel giddy and gooey inside and even when 4am rolls around, he still hasn’t hung up. Even when the conversation stops making sense, and he’s underneath the blanket with his eyes closed, he still doesn’t hang up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking around! Writing this fic is the most fun I've had in a long time, and you all make it even more so! You have no idea how much joy I get from reading your comments. Y'all are the best!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> back at it getting queerer and queerer with every chapter

Side by side, Bucky and Sam begrudgingly pull on their shoes at the door, muting the sound of Darlene in the kitchen, shouting something about cranberry sauce and aluminum foil. She’s already told them what to buy-- twice in the last five minutes-- and neither boy has forgotten. They know that if they don’t come back with the correct supplies, Thanksgiving will be ruined—in their mother’s eyes. So, Sam and Bucky head out into the cool autumn air before Darlene can _remind_ them a third time. Lord knows they don’t want to ruin Thanksgiving.

They climb into Bucky’s car and Sam starts cursing as soon as they get in.

“Shit, man,” he gripes. “You gotta get this heater fixed.”

“You gonna pay for it?” Bucky side-eyes him, starting up the car.

Sam smacks his lips. “Hell yeah, if it means I don’t gotta freeze my ass off every time I get in here with you.”

“It’s not even that cold.”

“Says you, the aggressively white frat boy who comes outside in _fall_ wearing _basketball shorts and flip flops_.”

“Rude.”

“But not wrong.”

Bucky rolls his eyes as he puts the car in reverse. “Put on your damn seatbelt.”

Sam yanks his seatbelt across his chest. “I don’t even _like_ cranberry sauce,” he mutters.

“Nobody likes cranberry sauce.” Bucky pauses, sighing as he reconsiders. “Gideon _loves_ cranberry sauce.” Gideon hasn’t been home for about three thanksgivings, but there’s no way that Bucky can forget the way that he devours the sweet, sticky, red goo that he loves so much. Paul and Darlene eat it too, but they can live without it. Not Gideon, though.

Sam throws his hands up in the air. “Well then Ma should’ve had _him_ bring it for his damn self!” he exclaims. “We shouldn’t have to go out on _Thanksgiving_ for cranberry sauce.”

“And aluminum foil.”

“ _Ugh_.”

Just as Bucky expects, every main road is jammed. Traffic is unavoidable, no matter which way he turns. It takes them a whole half hour to teach a grocery store that very well should’ve only been ten minutes away. The parking lot is so full that they have to park ten rows from the door, and even then Bucky almost hits three pedestrians with shopping carts filled to the brim. His anxiety skyrockets and he can tell that Sam’s frustration is spiking, which only makes things worse. When Bucky finally puts the car in park—in a spot in East Jesus Nowhere—he leans his head against the headrest and takes a deep breath.

“I hate stores on the holidays too,” Sam tells him, groaning. He gently elbows Bucky’s bicep. “Let’s just get it over with. I’ll find the aluminum foil.”

“I’ll find the dumb ass cranberry sauce.”

They hop out of the car and march toward the grocery store, determination in their strides. Weaving in between grocery carts and the frenzy of shoppers, they split; Sam gallops toward aisle 9 and Bucky makes his way to aisle 2. Surprisingly, it’s almost empty. Probably because nobody likes cranberry sauce. The chaos and commotion in the rest of the store is enough to light a fire underneath him though, and so he quickly begins examining the shelves.

Bucky kneels in the aisle, eyeing the bottom of the shelf, trying to remember which can of this sticky, gelatinous mess his mother wants him to buy. There’s so many different kinds, _too_ many, because it all tastes the same—like pennies and Jell-O. Bucky sighs and scratches his head before dragging his hand over his face, exasperated.

“Hey, man.”

He recognizes that voice. Bucky looks up to find Clint staring down at him, unshaven, with tired eyes that mimic his own.

“Hey,” Bucky greets him, rising from the floor. “I didn’t know you lived out here.”

“I don’t,” Clint answers. “My aunt does. My dad and I are spending the holiday with her because he can’t cook for shit.” Clint glances at the shelves upon shelves of cranberry sauce behind Bucky and scrunches up his nose. “You eat this crap?”

“No, my brother eats this crap.” Bucky laughs.

Clint picks up a can and frowns at it. “So does my dad,” He says. “And Nat, too. She was slathering it all over her turkey at Friendsgiving and I think I threw up in my mouth a little.”

Bucky hears the word “Friendsgiving” and his mind instantly goes back to that night. He remembers the food, the wine, the music and dancing…and dancing with Steve. Immediately, his face heats up. He turns to the shelves again, pretending to sift through the cans, but really just trying to get the red out of his cheeks before he speaks again.

Clint clears his throat. “So…Friendsgiving.”

Bucky nods once. “Friendsgiving.” He repeats. He sees Clint glance at him from the corner of his eye but he doesn’t look at him. He can’t. His heart is beating wildly in his chest and his hands are already so sweaty that he might drop a can if he actually picks one up. At least ten seconds of silence—excruciatingly silent silence—before Clint speaks again, in a voice that only Bucky can hear.

“You know we’re all… _y’know_ …like, all of us.”

“All of you?” Bucky repeats, chest tight, squeezing.

Clint finally catches his eye. “All of us.”

“Oh.”

Bucky’s holds onto a can, gripping it. He knows what Clint means, and he can’t believe he didn’t know that before. He sort of figured with Natasha, and with Peggy too, but was never completely sure. Girls kiss all the time—hell, he can’t count how many sorority girl’s he’s watched make out on Sig Delt’s porch and swear up and down they were straight. So he just stopped assuming. But he hadn’t known about Clint—that’s news.

Clint nods once. “Yeah…so, you too?” he asks.

Bucky steels his jaw and steadies his breath. He likes Clint—he can trust Clint. He can trust him.

“…me too.” The words float out on air, racing out of Bucky’s mouth like they wanted to be free.

“Well, welcome to the family,” Clint points to the can in Bucky’s hand and pinches his nose. “That stuff is the worst—try the fresh stuff. It’s over near the fruit in the back. Oh, and by the way,” Clint says, meeting Bucky’s eyes again. “No one’s expecting you to say anything, okay? You’re safe.”

_Safe._

Bucky’s heart jumps in his chest, just a little. He sets the can down on the shelf and ducks his head, not knowing whether he should smile or not. He does, anyway.

“Thanks, man.”

Clint nods once and claps Bucky on the shoulder. “Happy thanksgiving, dude. Tell Sam I said hi and to stop ignoring my texts.”

Bucky laughs, recalling all the texts—mostly bird memes, specifically owls—that Clint had sent Sam while they were driving home. Sam had laughed at each and every one and Bucky felt like he’d missed the joke somewhere.

Clint leaves and Bucky goes to the fruit aisle. He friends the fresh cranberry sauce that Clint told him about—it has _actual_ cranberries in it. Bucky is in awe. When he finds Sam and shows it to him, Sam is just as shocked when he shouts “Why haven’t we been eating _this?_ ”. They go to the self-checkout line and breeze past all the people with a million items in the other lines. The two of them nearly run to the car, just so they can get out of this store and past the holiday pandemonium. They throw the items in the backseat before Bucky starts the car, and then peels out of the parking lot.  

Bucky does tell Sam that he saw Clint, and he relays Clint’s message, but he doesn’t tell Sam what he told Clint. He wants to, and thinks maybe Sam would be proud of him if he did, but the words are stuck in his throat, behind his tongue, and he can’t figure out a way to set them loose. Inevitably, Sam will talk about Steve, and Bucky doesn’t want to talk about Steve because every time he thinks about him, his chest shrinks and aches, and he doesn’t like the way it feels. Bucky doesn’t like the way he feels when he thinks about Steve, who is so far away. It’s better to just ignore it, push it as far down as possible. So he does.

By the time they get back home, after spending another half hour in traffic, Gideon and Carol’s silver Volkswagen is parked in the driveway. Bucky wonders how long they’ve been here and how sassy their mother is going to be because it took so long for them to get back with the damned cranberry sauce. But when they walk through the door, Darlene is anything but upset. They hear her voice echoing followed by the sweet potatoes, the greens, the mac n’ cheese, and more. Bucky hears Carol’s voice too, softer but just as happy. And just as he begins to wonder where Gideon is, a strong arm wraps around his shoulders and two knuckles begin digging into his head.

“C’mon, cut that out!” Sam shouts as Gideon proceeds to serve Bucky the most ruthless noogie.

Bucky manages to wriggle his way out of Gideon’s grasp but the older and much more muscular man manages to drag him back and pull him into a tight, bone crushing hug.

“Aw—I missed you lil dude,” He chuckles, squeezing Bucky. “Where’ve you been?”

“Hiding from you,” Bucky jokes as Gideon finally releases him. He gives him a solid punch to the arm and Gideon doesn’t even flinch.

Sam lazily salutes his brother with a disinterested expression on his face. “Welcome home, Colonel Asshole.”

Gideon grins and yanks Sam into a rough embrace. “I missed you too, Sammy.”

“Ugh.” Sam groans. “I hope you brought food with you. Where’s Carol?”

“Kitchen with Mom. And yeah, I brought potato salad.”

“Oh, gross.”

“Samuel,” Immediately, at the sound of Darlene’s voice, Sam—and Bucky—immediately straighten up. “You’re too old for me to tell you to play nice with your brother. So I’m gonna pretend like I heard you being nice.”

“Yes ma’am.” Sam rolls his eyes. Darlene shoots him a look that could kill and he immediately walks over and kisses her cheek. “Where’s Car—holy shit, Carol. Ow!” Sam rubs the back of his arm where Darlene had pinched him. “Sorry, Mom.”

Sam’s eyes still haven’t left the doorway, where Carol is standing. Bucky doesn’t have a good view of her and so he walks over, cranes his neck a little just to see her. When he does, his eyes grow at least two inches in his head and he rears back.

Darlene pops the back of his arm too. “Boy, it’s rude to stare.”

“Oh my god,” Bucky marvels. “You’re pregnant.”

“Nice to see you too, James.” Carol laughs, pulling her shawl around her swollen stomach. “Surprise?”

“Oh my god,” Bucky repeats. “Christ—I’m sorry. Hey. It’s good to see you.” He strides over to Carol and hugs her gently, arching himself so that he doesn’t run into her protruding belly. “Wow.”

“Carol, you’re gonna let this guy father your children? Bad move.” Sam teases. Both Darlene and Gideon reach out to pinch him but he swiftly evades them, laughing as he races to the kitchen with Gideon and their mother on his tail.

Bucky is still standing in the front of the house, mouth hanging open, staring at Carol like she’d grown another head. She rolls her eyes.

“Before you ask—I’m eight months pregnant, we’re having a boy, and we’re postponing the wedding until after he’s born.”

“Did Mom and Pops know?”

Carol shakes her head. “No—we wanted to surprise everyone. Being overseas made that a pretty easy task. Now—stop staring because you’re making this really weird, kid.”

Bucky, not needing any reminders of how weird he always made everything, just laughs off her comment. When they walk into the dining room together, he does his best not to stare. Paul is setting the table and Carol immediately goes over to help him. Bucky takes his leave, goes to wash his face and hands before dinner. As he heads to the bathroom, his phone sounds off in his back pocket. He checks and sees that he has a snap from Steve. Excitement spikes in his chest, unbridled and honest. He opens it and sees Steve with his mom, packing food into the trunk of her car. Steve’s giving the camera a dorky thumb-up and his mother is smiling and waving. The caption says “ _on our way to the hospital. Happy thanksgiving! : )”._ The same tight ache returns to Bucky’s chest, but this time he smiles through it. He replays the snap just to see Steve’s goofy grin one more time.

 _I miss him_ , Bucky thinks. He only allows himself to think it once, to feel it just once, before he hides it again. Now’s not the time, not right before dinner. He can’t be thinking about Steve all through dinner, or he might say something stupid, something he’ll regret. So he’ll miss him, silently in the bathroom, and when Bucky comes out he will have pushed it so far down that it’ll seem like a memory, faint and far away.

He washes his hands. He leaves the bathroom. He goes into the kitchen. He brings in the turkey. He sits down beside Sam. He takes a deep breath.

He does _not_ think about Steve.

“So you’re looking for a house?” Paul asks Gideon, as he passes the bowl of mac n cheese around. Sam, who’s sitting beside his father, takes the bowl and drops three spoonful’s onto his plate. Sam passes it to Bucky. Bucky passes it to Darlene, leaving his own plate empty.

“Yeah, somewhere around Long Island, or Baldwin. Found a few prospects.” Gideon answers. Darlene passes the bowl across to Gideon.

“We want to be close to our families,” Carol chimes in, leaning back, allowing Gideon to fill her plate with food. “Especially now, with the baby coming. By Christmas, he should be here!” She sings.

A tray of ham comes around next. Again, Bucky leaves his plate empty.

Gideon grins. “Speaking of Christmas—can we stay here, Mama? Just for a few days. We’ll be with Carol’s family for a few days too.”

Darlene nods. “Well now, looks like we’re gonna have a full house for Christmas!” She purses her lips, still smiling as she glances over at Sam. “Someone’s bringing a friend home.”

“A friend?” Carol echoes in a sing-song voice.

Gideon rolls his eyes. “Oh god, who did you trick into dating you this time?” he teases.

Sam laughs despite his older brother’s comment. “His name is T’Challa—he’s an international student, and he’s never spent Christmas in the states, _and_ he’s not going home for break, so I thought I’d _be nice_ and invite him here,” Sam pauses, eating a piece of ham. “And yeah, we’re kind of dating. Kind of. Whatever.”

“Bucky,” Gideon says. “Make sure he doesn’t scare this one away. I liked the last one—what was her name?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Sam calls out.

A bowl of sweet potatoes makes its way around, leaving Paul’s hands and traveling to Sam’s.

Carol grins and laughs, then glances over at Bucky. “What about you, huh? Any special girls in your life?”

Bucky freezes. He tries to breathe, but his chest is weighted. His voice can’t reach the surface, words drowning at the base of his throat.

Sam tries to pass the plate to Bucky. Bucky’s hands are in his lap.

“Pass the yams, son.” He hears his mother talking to him, but her words drown out too, sounding as if they are underwater.

“Well? Yes? No?” Carol goes on. “You can’t tell me you don’t have a girlfriend by now! C’mon, Bucky we go through this on every holiday… ”

Bucky drowns out her voice.

Everyone is watching him. His mouth is dry, like it’s been cotton swabbed. His tongue seems thick in his mouth, seems to choke back the truth. Thoughts flash through his mind, and all of them are of Steve. All of them—of his smile, the way he always smiles at Bucky, every time they meet, like he couldn’t be happier to see him. Bucky thinks of Steve’s arms, his skinny arms, the way he hugs Bucky and seems to keep his whole world from falling apart, sometimes. He thinks of what he wouldn’t give to be somewhere with Steve, right now. Somewhere far away. Then, Carol asks her question again but Bucky ignores her. Instead, he counts the spokes on the fork beside his plate.

_One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four._

Darlene turns to Bucky. “The yams. Child, are you listening?”

Tired. Bucky is tired. Tired of hiding, tired of pretending, and tired of lying to himself and to his family. Again, he thinks of Steve and how amazingly brave he is, to unabashedly be himself and unapologetically live his truth without fear. And to Bucky, it’s downright shameful that he himself can’t manage to be honest—he can’t even tell his parents the truth and he’s tired of pretending as if there is no truth to be told.

_One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three—_

“James?”

The floodgates open, spilling everywhere. Drowning everything.

“…I’m gay, mom.”

Sam starts coughing, choking on his food, banging on his chest with his fist. Carol is frozen in her seat, fork in midair, a piece of ham dangling on its edge. Gideon’s eyebrows are so far up on his forehead that they’re almost past his nonexistent hairline. Paul is pinching the bridge of his nose, glasses crooked on his face. Bucky isn’t breathing. Darlene sighs.

“Just pass the bowl, honey. It’s okay. Just give it here and—”

Bucky snatches the bowl from Sam and passes it to his mother, face burning with embarrassment. As soon as the bowl is in her hands, he slides his chair all the way back, stands up from the table, and rushes out of the dining room. He races through the kitchen, tears prickling the corners of his eyes, before bolting out the back door and onto the deck. The cool evening air hits his face, pushes back the fearful tears, and Bucky plops down on the back stairs, burying his face in his palms. He doesn’t feel the rush of cold air against his bare skin, nor does he hear the sliding door behind him slamming shut. All of his senses seem to still, to shut off and shut down as he tries to wrap his mind around the mistake he’s just made. Bucky shuts his eyes tight and, using the heels of his palms, he wipes away the moisture from his eyes, taking in a sharp breath.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath. His breath is a white cloud in front of his face, shrouding his already blurred vision. Bucky’s hands shake furiously as he tries to find some semblance of peace to hold onto. But everything inside him is screaming, everything inside him is telling him that he’s wrong, that he’s done something terrible and has disappointed his entire family. He can’t shake the voice telling him that he’s bad, that he’s trouble, that he’s _wrong_.

It’s uncertain how long Bucky sits out on the deck alone, but when he feels Darlene’s hand on his frozen skin, her touch seems to melt the cold around him. She sits down beside him but Bucky won’t look over at her. He hangs his head, hands clasped together, dangling between his knees.

“…I didn’t mean to ruin dinner.”

Darlene huffs, pulling her wool sweater over her shoulders. “Your father ruined dinner, serving that dry, overcooked turkey,” she starts. “You? You haven’t ruined a thing.”

Bucky nods weakly, staring down at the wooden steps beneath him. “I should’ve said something sooner,” He says. “In the middle of dinner…that was so stupid.”

“You said what you needed to say when you needed to say it—it’s not stupid at all. I hear that coming out is different for everyone. Do you think that’s true?”

He shrugs, turning away from his mother to wipe his eyes again. “I guess, yeah.” He sighs. “Is…is Pops upset?”

“No, honey. He’s changed, grown a lot. Got a whole lot less stupid.” She tells him. Bucky finally smiles, albeit faintly. “Now what made you pick thanksgiving, son?”

“I—I didn’t plan it, Mom. It just came out. Steve was snapchatting me, and Carol kept asking about girlfriends, and I got overwhelmed, and—“

“Snap—what? And Steve? Your brother’s roommate?”

“Snapchat. It’s an app—where you send pictures and—well, Steve—we’re friends.” He pauses. “He’s my friend, Mom.”

“Okay,” Darlene answers, nodding.

Bucky takes a deep breath. “And I…well, we—I like him. He’s…not the first guy but, well he’s the only one that’s worth talking about, so.” Just saying those words make Bucky tired, exhausted. He holds his hands against his face, sighing again. Darlene takes the hint.

“Okay, then,” she smiles. “We can talk more whenever you’re ready, okay? Don’t feel like you have to rush—take your time. Take all the time you need.” When she stands, she presses a soft kiss to Bucky’s forehead, before patting him on the shoulder and heading inside. The sound of the back door slamming against its frame echoes through the night. Bucky sits outside, staring up at the dark sky, trying to allow the peace of the night to calm his nerves. But that peace is short-lived. His phone goes off—another text from Steve.

_(6:04) Hey! How’s your evening going?_

Bucky’s fingers hesitate in front of the screen. Slowly, his fingers begin to type the message, saying _I came out to my family at dinner_. Seconds after he sends the message, his phone lights up and Steve’s picture pops up on the screen. Bucky answers the phone, silent at first, and Steve is the first to speak.

“Buck?” He asks. At first, there’s noise in the background. After a few seconds, it starts getting quieter, farther away. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky speaks, voice still trembling, unsure of the words he’s speaking. “I think. I don’t know.”

“Hey,” Steve says, voice softer than Bucky has ever heard it. “It’s okay. I know it’s a lot…but I’m really proud of you. That was so brave, Bucky.”

Bucky barks out a strangled laugh. “I’m hiding from my family on the patio—not so brave.”

“I respectfully disagree.” Steve replies.

Bucky sighs, closing his eyes. “Steve…”

“Some people spend their entire lives wishing they were brave enough to do what you just did, Bucky. Their _whole lives_. You did a good thing, a really brave thing.”

“Thanks.” It’s all Bucky can manage. So many thoughts are swirling around his head, too many to grasp, enough to exhaust him. He’s silent for a while, trying to process, trying to deal. Steve doesn’t say anything but Bucky knows that he’s waiting for him to say something. His voice escapes him, but suddenly he hears Bruce’s voice in his head, saying _Use your words_ , over and over. So Bucky tries that.

“I’m…overwhelmed. I think.”

“Yeah?”

Bucky nods even though Steve can’t see him. “Yeah,” he says. “It just…happened, you know? It happened so fast. I didn’t…I don’t know, I didn’t mean to say it. Especially not in the middle of dinner. It was…I don’t know.”

“How’d your parents take it?”

“Okay, I think,” Bucky tells him. “I talked to Mom…she said Dad was fine. Our brother and his fiancée are here too, and I don’t know what they think,” He pauses. “Before I said it, Carol was asking me about girlfriends, so who knows.”

Steve laughs shortly, and the sound of his laugh makes Bucky smile just a little. “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Steve says. “I know you feel overwhelmed, but I think that’s normal. I know you’ve been wanting to come out to your parents for a while, but that doesn’t make it any less overwhelming. Your feelings are valid, I want you to know that.”

“I know.”

“And I want you to believe it, too.”

Bucky finds himself smiling again as he hangs his head. “Yeah, I know,” he takes a deep breath. “I don’t wanna go back in there.”

“So wait until they’re done eating, then go back in. You won’t have to awkwardly return to the table, then.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Bucky laughs, then Steve does too. “…thank you. You didn’t have to call, you know.”

“I know,” Steve says. “Wanted to make sure you were okay. We can keep talking, you know—until you’re ready to go back in. Only if you want to, though.”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies, and finally the ache in his chest is gone. “I want to.”

They spend another half hour on the phone. Steve tells Bucky about his day, about how he managed not to burn all of the food that he and his mother took to the hospital that day. Apparently, his mother had left sticky notes on every dish, with the cook time and appropriate temperature written on it. Bucky decides against questioning Steve’s cooking skills. Steve also sends him a load of pictures from their day, selfies of Steve and his mother, Steve with the kids from peds and their parents. There was one of Steve sitting on a colorful rug with a group of kids, all holding up hand drawn turkeys, with mismatched feathers glued to the construction paper. Bucky switches the call to speaker, just so he can look at pictures while he listens to Steve talk.

“I got all the kids together while Ma helped the staff prepare the cafeteria,” Steve said. “They’ve got this tiny rec room on the peds floor, so the nurses helped me get the kids in there and we started drawing turkeys. They’re all really sweet kids, Buck.”

“I’ll bet,” Bucky smiles as he scrolls through the pictures. “The feathers were a nice touch.”

“That was not my idea, but I agree. Got a little messy at the end.”

Bucky chuckles. “Yeah, I can see about three green feathers in your hair. Is that—is that glue on your eyebrow?”

“Probably.”

“Really living up to your aesthetic there, Rogers.”

Steve sighs and laughs, and Bucky _knows_ Steve is rolling his eyes on the other line.

“Jerk,” Steve says. “How do you manage to irritate me from an hour away?”

“Raw talent.”

Steve laughs again, but then Bucky hears him talking to someone in the background. About ten seconds pass before he comes back to the phone.

“Sorry,” Steve says. “That was my mom. We’re getting ready to pack up. Should I call you when I get home?”

“I’ll text you, let you know,” Bucky answers. “Sorry I kept you for so long.”

“I’m glad we got to talk,” Steve tells him. “And…I don’t know, I’m glad you told me about what happened. One day, you’re gonna feel really good about this—you’re gonna be proud of yourself.”

Bucky closes his eyes and smiles. He hopes that Steve is right. “I’ll talk to you later, Stevie.”

When their call ends, Bucky feels colder than ever. The frigid November air sets a chill to his skin. He pockets his phone and stands from the deck before walking back into the house. A welcoming blanket of warmth envelops him. It’s quieter in the house, but he still hears whispers of voices from the dining room, along with the clatter of plates. Bucky hears footsteps and immediately, he takes a step backward, already prepared to throw himself back out in the cold. But it’s Sam who enters the kitchen, wearing a calm expression on his face, and that helps Bucky to calm down.

“Hey, man,” Sam speaks in a whisper of a voice. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Bucky replies. “I’m cool.”

Sam nods. “Alright, I’ll trust you on that. We don’t have to talk about it, but just so you know, everyone’s cool with it, and Carol feels really bad for asking you about girlfriends for the last four years.”

Bucky actually laughs, shaking his head as he stares down at the brown kitchen tile. “I—that’s—I don’t know,” he stammers, “I’m still a little freaked out.” His heart is still racing, fingers still trembling. He’s still waiting for someone to pull the rug out from under him, to tell him that he’s done something wrong, something stupid. But he can’t say that to Sam.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “makes sense. Long time comin’.”

“It really was an accident.”

“I could tell,” Sam pats Bucky on the shoulder. “Listen—there’s plenty of food left. Why don’t you grab a plate, and then we can go to the basement and play some 2K on the XBOX.”

“That sounds amazing,” Bucky sighs, feeling just the slightest bit of pressure lifting from his chest.

“And then when everyone’s asleep, we can crack open a couple of Dad’s beers, which he’s _not_ supposed to be drinking but he _still_ bought anyway,” Sam grins. “We’ll be doing him a favor.”

Darlene is in the dining room, gathering plates and forks. When she sees Bucky, she smiles and hands him the empty plate he’d left at the table, but not before kissing his forehead and telling him “everything’s okay”. Bucky doesn’t know what he’d do without a mother like her. She even fixes his plate for him before he goes downstairs with Sam, who already has the XBOX hooked up and the game running. Once Bucky finishes eating, they start playing. Sam arguably kicks his ass the entire time. They spend hours arguing at the top of their lungs and Darlene only tells them to keep it down twice.

Sometime during the night, Steve sends Bucky a text, asking if he’s doing any better. Bucky takes a picture of Sam, controller in hand, intense glare on his face, and he sends it to Steve.

 _(8:00) 2K with this asshole. Never better._  
_(8:03) Such aggressive masculinity. You’re so butch._  
_(8:04) oh my god, shut up._ _  
_ (8:04) : )

Sam throws a pillow at Bucky’s head and then grins mischievously. “Stop texting your boyfriend and play the damn game, dude.”

“Fuck off,” Bucky laughs. But he does put the phone away and makes a mental note to call Steve back later that night.

For the rest of the evening, Bucky allows himself some peace, an escape, and time spent not thinking about what tomorrow will be like. In the morning he will have to face his family, and he knows without a doubt that there will be questions to answer, and explanations to give. He knows he’s not ready, but he does want to tell them the truth.

And maybe if he’s brave enough, he’ll tell them about Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for waiting so patiently! so glad i get to share this fic with y'all. don't forget to leave a comment! :)


	16. Chapter 16

Bucky sits alone at the dining room table, aimlessly twirling his spoon through a bowl of apple jacks. He is the only one home, and the house is exceptionally silent. Sam, Gideon, Carol and Darlene had gone to Paul’s church that morning to hear his holiday sermon. Bucky, unsurprisingly, had opted out. As a child, he’d never cared much for religion, church, or anything associated with it. Oddly enough, the Wilson’s had never pushed him into going—they accepted it, moved on, and occasionally invited him out of familial politeness. They never leave him out of anything unless he declines an invitation, and Bucky’s grateful for that, even though he might not always tell them. In his eyes, they have plenty of reasons to leave him out. And he knows that he shouldn’t think like that anymore, but he’s been having a hard time feeling like part of the family ever since the Thanksgiving debacle. Though it was three days ago, the sting of embarrassment was still there. He hadn’t brought it up again, hadn’t wanted to make things more uncomfortable than they already were. He knows that his parents aren’t upset, but that didn’t make it any less embarrassing. Carol and Gideon walk on eggshells around him, and it makes him feel even worse, like he’s made a mistake, like he should’ve just kept this all to himself.

It would’ve been easier, anyway.

His cereal gets soggy before he even takes a bite.

After trashing his failed breakfast, Bucky goes outside to get some fresh air, try and clear his mind. The morning air is crisp, but Bucky forgoes a jacket, wanting to feel the cool air on his skin. A heavy fog has settled over their neighborhood, obscuring the houses farther down the road, blurring the ones up close. It’s a typical November morning, minus the torrential downpour.

Bucky sits down on the front steps, breathing in, ignoring his mixed up thoughts about his family, about Steve, and about what the hell he’s going to do when he gets back to school. Sure, he’s come out to his parents, but when he gets back to school, it’ll be the same old song and dance, dodging questions about girlfriends, sneaking around to see Steve, pretending like he doesn’t see Steve in public when all he really wants to do is run up and kiss him. The thought of it makes him absolutely sick to his stomach—that’s not what he wants to go back to. He hates feeling limited, caged every time he steps foot on campus.

Bucky wonders what it would be like, to feel totally free. He wonders what it’s like for Steve, and even Sam, who are so unapologetic about who they are that it almost makes Bucky jealous. More than anything, Bucky wants to be brave, and he wants to feel free.

When Paul’s black Buick glides into the driveway, followed by Gideon’s Volkswagen, Bucky’s head perks up. Darlene is the first to get out of the Buick, wearing a disappointed expression on her face, completely clashing with her pink pantsuit.

“James Buchanan Barnes, if you don’t get inside and put a coat on—”

“Leave the boy alone, Darlene,” Paul sighs. “maybe he wanted to catch some cool air!”

Bucky stands, smiling faintly. Darlene comes toward him with a warning stare, but she still kisses his cheek and draws him into a tight hug.

“Hey, Mom,” Bucky hugs her tighter than usual, because right now he doesn’t want to let go.

After a while, Darlene pulls back and brushes Bucky’s hair down with her hand, sighing as she gives him a once over. “Put on a sweater before you catch cold, child.”

“Yes ma’am.” Bucky replies. He starts to open the door and go inside, but Paul’s voice stops him.

“Come here, son,” Paul waves Bucky over. “I need your help with something in the trunk.”

Bucky nods and heads over, padding barefoot through the damp grass. Sam gets out of the car and pats Bucky’s shoulder as he greets him. When Carol and Gideon climb out of the Volkswagen, Bucky receives a “Mornin’ lil bro” from Gideon and a warm, silent smile from Carol. _At least she’s not looking at me like a wounded bird or something,_ he thinks. When Bucky reaches Paul’s car, and everyone else is inside, he stops and stands with his arms folded over his chest.

“You don’t actually need my help with anything, do you?”

Paul shrugs. “Not really—just thought we should talk, you know, before you and your brother head out.” Paul leans against the black Buick, clasping his hands together at his waist. “You know I’m not—well, I'm not the best at talking.”

Bucky nods. “Me either, Pops.”

Paul nods too.

The two of them are silent for quite some time, both staring up into the foggy sky at nothing in particular. Bucky silently grapples with the words in his head, trying to get them out, free them so that they will reach his mouth, but he’s met with nothing but his own silence. Where would he start?

“We missed you here, you know.” Paul says.

“I know,” Bucky replies. “I missed you guys too I just…I was busy with stuff. Things were…bad.”

“You know your mother and I, we worry. But we’d never—you know, we give you space because we know you need it, but we always…worry. We care.”

Bucky grips the sides of his own arms, trying to breathe at a slower pace. “Lots of things went wrong. I wanted—I should’ve told you and Mom what happened, but it just…" Bucky shakes his head, feeling the same old shame washing over him. "I’m just such a disappointment.”

“James,” Paul interjects, turning to Bucky. “You’re everything but. Every person on God’s green earth has bad times, but that doesn’t make any one of us a disappointment. Your mama and I have always been proud of you.” He argues. Bucky can see the fire in his eyes, can hear the conviction with which he always speaks, but it doesn't change how Bucky feels. Doesn't change what he knows.

“Pops—I lost my job, my grades were crap, I lost all my scholarships—I messed up. I messed everything up.” Bucky doesn’t mention the rest, doesn’t mention how he allowed Rumlow to mess with his head, to screw him up in ways he never thought possible. He doesn’t mention his anxiety, his depression, or how he had to claw himself out of the pit that his relationship had buried him in. He doesn’t mention the hurt—he doesn’t mention any of it. He takes the blame.

“Listen,” Paul begins, laying his hand on Bucky’s forearm. “I know you had a hard time. I know things…went wrong. Now, I don’t know the specifics, but I do know that you would never let any of those things stop you. You haven’t. You’re still doin’ what you gotta do, and that’s why your mama and I are proud. And we’re always gonna help you, no matter what. We don’t care if you mess up, if you like girls or if you like boys—you’re still our son. Nothin’ else matters.”

Bucky is quiet for a while, absorbing Paul’s words. He sighs, letting out a deep, long breath, and discreetly wipes at the corners of his eyes before he speaks.

“Thanks, Pops.”

Paul gives Bucky’s forearm a good squeeze before letting his hands fall to his sides. “We love you, Bucky. Always know that—and don’t ever be afraid to tell us things. We wanna know—even if we don’t quite understand, we still wanna know,” He pauses. “If it’s about school, you can talk to us—or if it’s about…relationships, you can talk to us about that too. I still got a lot of learnin’ to do, but you deserve to be comfortable, alright?”

Bucky nods again, staring down at the driveway, at the cold pavement underneath his feet. “Did Mom…uh, did she tell you about Steve?” He asks. His heart is in his throat, trying to beat its way out.

Paul shakes his head. “She didn’t.”

“Oh,” Bucky says as he takes a deep breath. He’s not sure if he’s relieved that his mother kept his confession a secret, or if he’s terrified because he has to talk to his father about it. Either way, he’s opened the door.

“You can tell me—if you want.”

“Okay,” Bucky answers. He wracks his brain for the right words, but just like Paul, he’s never been good at talking. “Steve is…” his voice trails off. He tries to find the perfect way to describe Steve, and how amazing he is, how Steve is one of the biggest reasons that Bucky decided to change, and to be brave. He wants to tell his father that Steve makes him feel safe, worthy, and wanted. He wants to tell his father that he’s never felt this way about another person in his entire _life_. But the words don’t come out that way—they never do. “Steve’s my friend,” Bucky immediately shakes his head, lifting his eyes. “no—Steve is more…he’s more than my friend. I…when we met I—I don’t know, Pops. He makes me feel different—good. It’s a good feeling. I really, really like Steve.”

Slowly, Paul starts to nod. He glances over at Bucky, brown eyes set on him. “Is he your…boyfriend?”

“No.” Bucky quickly answers. “I…no.”

“Is he gonna be?”

Bucky releases an anxious sigh as he shakes his head. “That’s a great question, Pops.” One that Bucky’s been going over and over for days, for weeks. He has no idea where this thing with Steve is headed, but all he knows is that he doesn’t want it to end. “I just feel right…when I’m with him.”

“That’s a good thing,” Paul is smiling and Bucky doesn’t know why, but that smile almost calms him down. “As long as it’s not hurtin’ nobody, always do what feels right. You’ll never be happy if you don’t.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. He rubs his arms, trying to stave off the cold. “I’m glad we talked.”

“Me too, kid.” Paul replies. “Wish you would’ve come with us this morning—I think you would’ve liked my sermon.”

Bucky laughs despite himself. “You’d bring your gay son to church?” he jokes.

Paul shrugs. “Brought my other gay son, what’s the difference?”

“Sam is bisexual, Pops.”

“You know what I meant, Buck—hey,” Paul places his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You’re always welcome in my church—you know that, don’t you? You know that I’m not—I’m not like that, not like those homophobic nutjobs.”

Bucky nods. “I know, Pops—I was just joking. I know.” He reaches behind Paul and pats him on the back. “You’re a good man.”

“And so are you.”

**____________________________________________________________________________________________  
**

“Ma, I’ll be back home in three weeks,” Steve groans as his mother pulls him into a bone crushing embrace. “December starts next week, you know.” He can see Clint smiling at the other side of the room, but he obviously doesn’t know that he’s next in line for a hug.

“Doesn’t mean I’m gonna miss you any less—hey, look,” Sarah pulls back and holds Steve by the shoulders. “Call me as soon as you get back to campus. Clint is a terrible driver, sweetheart.”

“You wound me, Mrs. Rogers.”

“I’m telling the truth, kid—come here. You’re next!”

She hugs Clint tight and tells him “Take care of my son, or else,” and Clint laughs, but they both know she’s completely serious.

Sarah sends both boys off with enough casseroles to feed them for at least two weeks, care packages that could last for two months. She walks them out to Clint’s car and after the boys have packed away all of their things, Sarah hugs Steve one more time, just as tight as before.

“This break wasn’t long enough,” Sarah says. “Next time, I’ll take off work so we have more time together. Also,” she pauses, smiling sweetly at her son. “Next time, you should bring your friend.”

Steve smiles and almost blushes, shrugging lightly. “We’ll see.” He kisses his mother’s cheek one last time. “Love you, Ma.”

“Love you more—don’t forget to call.”

When Clint pulls away, Steve silently wishes that they’d have had just one extra day to stay. After being home with his mother every day for two years, it’s hard to leave her, even harder to be away for so long. He doesn’t realize how much he actually missed her until they’re on the road, leaving Brooklyn behind. When the skyline disappears, Steve starts wishing he could turn back time.

He sighs, finally turning to Clint. “How was Thanksgiving at your aunt’s?” he asks.

Clint shrugs. “She and Dad didn’t fight, for the first time ever. Food was good—turkey was dry.”

Steve laughs. “I think turkey is just generally dry.”

“This is true,” Clint grins. “I had a good time. Missed being at school, though. Nothing like having your own space, you know?”

“Makes sense,” Steve replies. “It’ll be good to get back to campus—I’m more than ready to finish out this semester.”

“Still thinking about declaring your major?” Clint asks.

Steve nods. “Yeah,” he says. “This week—I’m going to meet with my advisor, and ’m going to do it. At first, I questioned it but—art is the one thing I’m good at. The one thing I actually enjoy, you know? Might as well try to make a career out of it.”

“Gonna have to bust your ass to do it.” Clint tells Steve.

Laughing softly, Steve nods once. “I’m well aware,” he says. “Hopefully it’ll all pay off in the end.”

They split the drive again, stopping at the three-hour mark to trade off. The drive back to school seems much faster than the drive to Brooklyn. In no time, they’re riding into town, pulling into campus. Clint drops Steve off at his dorm before heading to his own. Steve lugs his laundry and suitcase up the stairs to his room because the line to take the elevator is ridiculously long. Once he’s upstairs, he has to drop all of his things at the door, just to catch his breath.

When he opens the door, he finds Sam inside, unpacking and putting his things away.

“Hey, man!” Sam greets him with a smile and open arms.

Steve hugs Sam quickly, clapping him on the shoulder. “When did you get back?”

“Just about half an hour ago,” Sam answers. “Got on the road pretty early so we could make it back at a decent time.” Sam walks back over to his bed and his open suitcase then begins to take out more clothes, to put them in his dresser. “How was home?”

“Amazing—really amazing,” Steve answers. “I really missed it. My mother, the city—everything. It was nice to get back. What about you?”

“It was pretty good—Mom’s food was amazing. Got to see my older brother and then found out that I’m gonna be an uncle!”

“Seriously?” Steve exclaims. “That’s great!”

Sam nods, grinning. “Yeah—exciting stuff. My brother’s fiancée is _hella_ pregnant. Nobody knew—she just came back the size of a planet.”

“Wow,” Steve marveled. “How’d your parents take it?”

“Mom’s already setting up a gift registry for a very late baby shower. Pop’s…still in shock, I think. First grandchild, and all.” Sam pauses, holding up a half-folded shirt. “You talk to Bucky?” he asks, shifting subjects.

“Yeah,” Steve replied. “I talked to him. He called me.”

“Told you everything?”

Steve nods. “He did—is he alright?”

“He’s good,” Sam answers. “You should let him know you’re back. Couldn’t shut up about you the whole ride back.”

Steve laughs. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

“Six hours, Steve. Six.”

“...I’ll text him.”

Sam grins, putting his shirt into the top drawer of his dresser. “He missed you—we both did. Can’t say I don’t love having you as my roommate, dude.”

Agreeing, Steve nods again. “It’s good to be back.”

Steve hurriedly cleans out his suitcase and puts his laundry away. Once everything is done, he texts Bucky, and Bucky responds immediately.

 _(4:00) Hey, I heard you’re back._  
_(4:00) yea I am. are u?_  
_(4:01) Yep. Just finished putting away my stuff._  
_(4:04) cool. hey do you think you could come over later? i wanna talk to you about some stuff._  
_(4:04) not like that. that sounded bad._ _  
(4:05) lol I know what you meant. Give me half an hour._

It takes ten minutes for Steve to unpack everything. Fifteen minutes to hastily pick out a new outfit.  Five minutes to bolt across campus to Bucky’s dorm room (not before Sam yells at him to put a jacket on.)  He manages to catch up with Bruce on the way in—probably because Bruce appears to have packed about half his dorm room for a five day weekend. Steve pulls the door open and hits the elevator buttons for him, and Bruce nods gratefully in response. “Thanks, Steve. You going up to see Bucky?”

Steve goes bright red—he can feel it creeping up his neck and up to his cheeks.  “I…yeah.  He invited me over, is that—is that okay?”

Bruce smiles without looking up from the binder full of papers he’s flipping through. “That’s fine. I actually have to go to the bio building right after this, I’m helping Dr. Xavier run an experiment, and he has yet to explain what we’re actually doing, so…you have the night, basically.”  

“All night? But we just got back from break.”

“Knowing him, he never left the building for it,” Bruce laughs, shrugging. “It’s okay.  It’s good experience.”

Bruce and Bucky’s door is halfway open, and Bucky’s in the middle of a haphazard attempt to clean his side of the room, arms full of books and papers and stray socks. Steve can’t help but let out a laugh before he catches himself.  Bucky looks up, startled, and for a moment, he almost seems stuck there, by his bed.  “Hi.”

“Hi,” Steve says, flashing him a small smile.  He steps across the room, up to Bucky’s side, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, taking two of the books in his hands. “Where do these go?”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to. Besides, you’re about to drop these all over the floor.”

“Uh…top shelf, on top of my desk. So, uh, how was the drive back?”

“Long. Clint only almost killed us twice.” That, of course, leaves out all his own near misses on the last hour and a half, but that’s a story for another time. Bucky shoots him a little look of mock alarm, but laughs just in time to ruin the whole display. “Good. I’d have to fight him. And I don’t think he’s ready for me to kick his ass like that.”

“I dunno, Clint’s pretty scrappy.”

“Yeah, but I’d have to avenge you, obviously,” Bucky says, as he stands up after shelving the last few books. His hands go into his pockets, and he just stands there, looking at Steve.  

Across the room, Bruce closes his dresser drawer and clears his throat. “I’m gonna head out. I probably won’t be back until midnight or so…see you later.” Then he steps out of the door, binder in hand. The door closes behind them and they are finally alone.

Bucky’s shoulders drop as he finally relaxes, and he steps toward Steve, sliding his hands along his hips, dipping his head so that he can press their foreheads together. Steve closes his eyes and just breathes in the moment.

“Hey nerd.”

“Hey, jerk.”

“Rude,” Bucky murmurs, before he leans into kiss Steve, gentle and sweet, almost shy.  Steve rests his hands on Bucky’s waist for a second, then slips his fingertips into his belt loops, tugging them both back toward the bed. Bucky falls so easily, so carefully, to keep from hurting Steve. He gives him a moment to scoot towards the inside edge of the bed, then spoons up behind Steve, holding him tight like he’s wanted to for days.

“That’s me. I’m the rude one." Steve grins. "How was break?”

“I mean…you know already. From me and Sam. We had dinner, I…came out, in like… the second worst possible way.”

“You did fine, Buck.  Promise. You feel okay about it, though?” Steve says, voice growing softer as he turns over enough to face Bucky. The other boy’s eyes are down until Steve places a hand on his cheek. Then he looks up at him, biting his lower lip.  

“I…I feel good about it. I felt…free. I felt like I could just be. Without having to explain myself or hide or make excuses. Until I came back here. Now I’m here, and I’m back in hiding.”

“Bucky, it’s okay—you do what you feel ready for, you don’t have to rush for anyone.”

One of Bucky’s hands slides into Steve’s and he squeezes back gently. “No, I—I don’t know if I feel ready for this, but I need to. I need to do this so I can…”

“What, Buck?”

Bucky closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then looks at Steve again. Steve’s stomach knots, and for a second, he can’t quite remember how to breathe.  His heart is beating out of control.

“So I can—so I can ask you to be my boyfriend.”

Steve can’t say anything.  He can’t quite figure out how to put the words together.  It’s really only one word, but he can’t, it’s all caught up in how much he _wants_ this, how _long_ he’s wanted this. So he leans in to kiss Bucky, tangling his fingers in his long hair, tugging him as close as they can possibly get. Then he’s urging Bucky to roll over, so he can climb on top of him, looking down at him.  Bucky’s smiling, but there’s something a little uncertain about it, like it threatens to disappear at any moment.

“What, Bucky?”

“Well, you uh…you never answered my question.”

Steve laughs to himself, shaking his head for just the barest second before he leans down to kiss him again (because really, he thought he’d made it pretty obvious),  “Yeah, Bucky. I wanna be your boyfriend.”

The uncertainty fades out of Bucky’s smile, replaced by disbelief and delight— _god, he can smile so bright sometimes,_ Steve thinks as Bucky’s hands come to rest on his waist again.

“Okay,” Bucky breathes slowly, still grinning. “And uh—I mean, you can…you can tell your friends, if you want. You don’t have to. But…”

“Of course I want to, Buck.” Steve cuts in. “How about I wait a while? We can take things slow.” he offers. This is a huge step for Bucky and as excited as Steve is, he wants Bucky to be comfortable. As proud as he is of Bucky, and as much as he wants to show him off, Steve knows that waiting for a little while would probably be the best option. “There’s no rush.”

Bucky nods once. “Okay,” His hands are still on Steve’s waist, and he’s holding onto Steve like he might disappear any second.

Steve reaches down and takes both of Bucky’s hands into his own, cupping them between his own hands, holding them against his chest.

“Can I stay over tonight?” Steve asks in a quiet voice. He’s nervous but he won’t let on—it’s the first time he’s ever outright asked to stay the night, and he feels a little weird asking, a little needy, like he shouldn’t ask yet. But he wants to stay, especially tonight.

Seeing Bucky’s smile is all that Steve needed to calm his nerves.

“I was hopin’ you’d ask,” Bucky says. “I’ll text Bruce later.”

Steve lets out a relieved sigh and then leans down to kiss Bucky again. Steve slowly climbs off of him and returns to his original spot, right beside Bucky. He rests his head against Bucky’s shoulder and wraps an arm around his torso, nestling into him. Bucky slips one arm underneath Steve and holds him tightly. Steve can hear Bucky’s heart in his chest, beating faster than ever. Before Steve can even open his mouth to say something, Bucky beats him to it.

“I know it’s not easy,” Bucky begins, staring up at the ceiling and doing everything he can to avoid Steve’s eyes. “to date someone who’s in the closet. I know…it was hard, for my ex. Because I was always hiding everything.”

Steve shakes his head, exhaling slowly before he speaks, choosing his words carefully. “Buck, I’m not your ex,” he says, and he means every word. He doesn’t know that this man did to Bucky, but Steve knows that he hurt him, and instilled a fear so deep that Bucky is still digging his way out of it. Steve knows that he will never be anything like that man. “I’m here—whatever decision you make about coming out, or not coming out—I’ll be here. As your friend, your boyfriend, whatever. Things will be different, okay?”

After a long period of silence, Bucky sighs and he nods only once. “Okay,” he kisses Steve’s cheek, slow and lingering. “Thank you.”

Steve smiles, resting his hand on Bucky’s chest, where his heart is still beating a mile a minute. “Things will be different.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feelings are happening a lot. comment if you agree  
> you can also find me on tumblr and talk to me there! @queerimagination


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> glad to be back and updating this fic!

Bucky tries—three times, to be exact, on three separate occasions—to come out to his brothers. 

Once, he tries after they leave their weekly chapter meeting, and are all walking back to their respective dormitories. They asked about Thanksgiving break and Bucky wanted to tell them the truth, that he’d come out to his parents, that he was gay. But instead, he told them that his soon-to-be sister-in-law was pregnant and that he was going to be an uncle. 

A week later, Bucky wanted to tell them over lunch, when they were finalizing the details for Winter Formal. Gabe said that he finally asked Misty Knight out and she’d said yes, Dugan wanted to ask Emma Frost from Chi Nu (she would never say yes, Bucky knew that much), and then they asked what girl Bucky would be taking. He wanted to tell them that he didn’t plan on taking any girls, because he was gay and his new boyfriend probably wouldn’t be happy if he took a girl. Instead, Bucky told them that he was thinking about asking Sharon. Completely untrue. 

On the third go,  _ during _ a chapter meeting, the floor was open for new business. Dugan brought up expanding recruitment efforts to different groups on campus. Pietro brought up SAFE, the LGBTQ+ group on campus, asked if anyone had any connections to the group. Bucky instinctively raised his hand and regretted it the minute he did. Unbeknownst to them, he went to SAFE every Tuesday with Steve, and sometimes even with Sam. When Morita asked just how Bucky knew  _ anyone _ in that group, Bucky wanted to tell him the truth. Instead, he said “My brother’s partner is on the exec board. I’ll get some info to him”.

Needless to say, Bucky was frustrated.

One Tuesday morning, he talked to Sam about it. Sort of.

“I gotta—I need to tell my brothers.”

“Need to?” Sam repeated, shoveling a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. “Do you, really?”

Bucky held a lukewarm cup of coffee in his hands, trying not to tremble as he spoke. “I feel like I…like I have to, you know? I know I should. I need to.”

“You don’t need to do anything, Bucky. If you want to, you can. If you don’t want to, don’t worry about it right now. Take all the time you need. You’re not obligated. You don’t owe them anything.”

That still seemed like the wrong answer, but Bucky didn’t bring it up again. At least not with Sam.

Sam didn’t understand. There was so much more going on that Bucky wasn’t sure he was capable of explaining. For starters, he’d already been over this before, already swam in this particular ocean of guilt, and had already damn near drowned in it. It’d been worse, when he was dating Rumlow. The fraternities on campus were all close knit, and secretly dating one of the most popular greeks on campus, while still being in the closet, had come with enough guilt and shame to last a lifetime. He felt like he was lying to his brothers every time he was with them, every time he and Rumlow showed up together anywhere, pretending like they were just friends, or best friends, or whatever. Always pretending. And Rumlow never made it any better, because he was always so close, always draping his arm around Bucky’s shoulders and whispering to him in public and making it so very hard to hide. Always making it hard to lie. Not to mention the constant teasing and ridiculing when they were alone, always making Bucky feel stupid for being in the closet. Bucky was always made to feel that because he’d lied to his brothers for so long, they wouldn’t trust him when he finally told the truth. Bucky didn’t want to feel the guilt and the shame anymore—he didn’t have it in him to live through something like that again.

The truth, Bucky thinks, would be easier to manage.

Now if he could just get it  _ out _ .

Wishful thinking.

Tuesday evening, Bucky meets with the planning committee for Winter Formal in the shared recreation room in fraternity & sorority row. It’s composed of one member from each fraternity and sorority on campus. They only meet once a month, but since Winter Formal is just a few weeks away, they’ve been meeting at least twice a week. Bucky, who’s the head of the entire committee (one responsibility he’d never take on again) is leading the meeting. He’s standing at the front of the room, pacing anxiously in front of the projector, occasionally blinded by its beam of light. If he said he wasn’t nervous to speak in front of everyone, he’d be lying.

“Hey, you!” Bucky looks up toward the door to see Sharon bounding into the room, the first to arrive.

Bucky stares at her quizzically. “What are you doing here?”

“Proxy,” Sharon answered. “Emma’s sick. I’m her stand-in.”

Bucky shrugs. “That’s too bad. Get ready for the most boring meeting of your life, I guess.”

“I’m sure it can’t be that bad.”

“We’re talking about budgeting,” He doesn’t add  _ for the millionth time _ , “try keeping your eyes open through  _ that _ .”

As the others begin to file into the room and fill the seats, Bucky’s anxiety only worsens. He fiddles with the powerpoint slides on his computer, trying to make sure everything’s perfect. He goes over the list of the names of people who are supposed to be there, counts the numbers of seats, re-counts the number of people in the room. He starts sweating even though it’s barely seventy degrees in the room. He ignores Sharon’s worried glances—he doesn’t have time to explain how much he dreads public speaking. When the last people trickle into the room, Bucky starts calling off names for attendance.

“Kappa Kappa Gamma?”

“Present.”

“Alpha Phi Alpha?”

“Present.”

“Psi Phi?”

“Here.”

“Chi Nu?”

“Proxy.”

He runs down the list and when he reaches the last organization, his mouth begins to feel dry, like someone was pressing cotton against his tongue.

“Alpha Upsilon?” Bucky looks up, scans the room. He does a headcount. 1 missing. “Alpha Upsilon? He calls again, receiving no answer. He can’t say that he’s upset. With a sigh of relief, Bucky sets the list down and turns to the presentation. “Alright—let’s get started. Starting with dining. Here is the proposed budget. I went over—”

“—Am I late?”

The sound of his voice turns Bucky’s blood to ice. Bucky stops mid-sentence, turns to face the door, and prepares himself to meet the eyes of the very last person he’s ever wanted to see. Brock Rumlow is standing in the doorway, disheveled with a faux-apologetic grin on his face.

Bucky manages to speak. “Yes.” His mouth feels like it’s full of glass. Rumlow smiles at him and it makes him feel physically sick, and hot with anger.

“Sorry,” Rumlow slides into the room and takes a seat at the very back. “Oh, and I’m a proxy.”

“I can see that.”

This was bad. This was so bad and there was no way for Bucky to make it good. The person from Alpha Upsilon who usually came to the meetings was  _ definitely _ not Rumlow. Because if it had been, Bucky would not be the person running the meetings. He tries to keep talking about the stupid budget, but every time he looks up to address the crowd, all he can see is Rumlow. Even when he’s not looking at the people in the room, he can still feel Rumlow’s eyes on him, all over him. It makes him want to run, to hide, and to disappear.

But none of that is an option. So Bucky keeps going. He uses every bit of strength he can muster to power through this meeting.

When it’s over, he doesn’t even open the floor for questions. He tells everyone in the room that he’s late to another meeting, so they’ll have to email him if they have any concerns, and then he starts packing up his things. He bolts out of the room, but he isn’t fast enough. He feels Rumlow’s eyes following him again, and as soon as Bucky leaves the room, so does he.

“Hey,” His voice doesn’t bring back a single pleasant memory. “In a rush?”

“I have another meeting,” Bucky repeats in the steadiest voice he can muster. He doesn’t even turn around to look at Rumlow. He can’t.

“It’s almost nine at night—the only thing meeting happening right now is SAFE, and I know you ain’t going there, Buck.”

_ You don’t know shit about me anymore _ , Bucky thinks. But those aren’t the words that come out. “What do you want, and why are you following me?”

“Can you stop acting like this?” Rumlow says, almost laughing. He walks forward, goes to Bucky’s side and stops only a foot away from him. “I’m not doing anything wrong—I’m just talking to you, dude. Relax. You’re acting crazy right now.” Rumlow pauses, inching toward Bucky. “I just wanna ask how you’ve been.”

“I’ve been great.” Bucky curtly answers. The hair on his arms is standing straight up, and his palms are beginning to sweat. He feels sick, absolutely sick. 

Rumlow is still grinning. “Me too, not that you’d ever ask,” He reaches out to touch Bucky’s arm but Bucky pulls away and takes two steps to the side, nearly falling against the wall. “Woah—hey, come on. Don’t be like that. I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” His voice is smooth and menacing, just like it always was. The same voice that always,  _ always _ got Bucky to believe anything, to do anything. “Just trying to have a nice conversation—just wanna ask you one simple question.”

“If I answer your question will you leave?” Bucky blurts out, surprised at himself.

Rumlow doesn’t seem deterred. “I was on my way out just like you, Buck.” He grins. He steps toward Bucky again, arms at his sides, looking completely and totally at ease. “So, why don’t you tell me about your new friend, hm? Who’s that blonde little twink you’re so fond of? I’d like to know  _ his _ name.”

It takes every bit of willpower to keep Bucky from slamming his whole fist into Rumlow’s mouth.

“Get the hell away from me.” Bucky grounds the words out in a low voice, full of fire and rage. All of the fear is gone, replaced with fury. He’s not scared now— _ now _ he wants to fight.

“Aw, Buck come on—why are you always so angry? Huh?”

The door to the meeting room swings open and out walks a very pissed off Sharon Carter. It takes only half a second for Rumlow’s body language to change. He takes a step away from Bucky and starts looking a lot less like a menace and a lot more like a friend. The scowl on Bucky’s face, however, remains constant. Bucky squares his shoulders and stands tall, eyeing Rumlow furiously.

Rumlow raises his hands in mock-surrender. “Don’t take it so hard, Buck. I was only kidding. He’s cute—suits you. I’m sure your bros are dyin’ to meet him.”

“If you ever come near him, I swear—”

“Hey, Barnes—aren’t you going to be late to that meeting?” Sharon’s voice rings clarity in Bucky’s head, loud and clear. “Don’t waste your time here.”

Bucky knows she means  _ Don’t waste your time on him _ —he can read between the lines.

She turns to Rumlow, wearing a shit eating grin. “And Brock, shouldn’t you be like, at study tables with your brothers? What with all that academic suspension, you’d think?”

The rest of the greek members in the meeting room begin to pour out. Rumlow scowls at Sharon but he keeps his mouth closed. He starts walking in the opposite direction that Bucky was heading in, and Sharon takes that as her cue to make her way over to Bucky, grab him by the arm, and pull him down the hallway.

“You got some real bad history with Brock, or something?” she whispers under her breath. “Because every time I see you two together, you look like you’re about to either run or tear his throat out.”

“Sounds about right.”

They step outside into the crisp November air, and Bucky can barely feel the cold because his skin is on fire. He’s so angry he could scream. How  _ dare _ Rumlow have the audacity to talk about Steve, to even  _ think _ about him. Bucky has never been this angry, never been so ready to punch someone in the fucking throat just for  _ talking. _ But the thought of Rumlow even  _ knowing _ about Steve had made him blindingly furious.

“Hey—are you there? Barnes?” Sharon waves her hand in front of Bucky’s face, bringing him back to reality. He takes a deep breath and nods once, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What happened between you two?”

“Nothing worth talking about,” Bucky scoffs.

“Bullshit,” Sharon sucks her teeth, annoyed. “You looked like you were about to pulverize him. Why? What’d he do to you?”

_ What didn’t he do _ ? Bucky thinks to himself. Ridiculed him, manipulated him, fucked him up beyond repair. Too much to say. Too much to remember.

“We’re friends, right?” Sharon began again, meeting Bucky’s eyes. “And not just because of Stevie—we’re actually friends, right?”

Bucky sighs heavily, nodding his head. “Of course. We’re friends.” He admired Sharon for her tenacity. She reminded him of Steve—a lot.

“Then let me be your damn friend, Barnes and tell me what the problem is.”

Bucky weighed his options. He could tell her right now, get past it, move on. It’d make him look weak, but at least he’d be telling the truth. Or, he could hold fast to this secret, tell Sharon to drop it, and keep it moving. However, knowing Sharon, she would only ask Steve, because she knows that he and Bucky are close. The only problem is that Steve doesn’t know who Rumlow is, and Steve definitely doesn’t know the whole story. Sure, Steve knows that Bucky’s last relationship had been nothing short of a disaster, but he doesn’t know that every time Bucky is in the same room with Rumlow, he turns into a deer in headlights. Steve doesn’t know  _ that _ . But Sharon does.

Bucky goes with the former.

“So,” He begins, folding his arms over his chest. “You know about… _ me _ .” He emphasizes the last word, and opens his eyes wide as he tries to help Sharon figure out what he’s saying without actually saying it.

Sharon stares at him for at least five seconds before shaking her head. “I am not picking up what you’re putting down.”

“Sharon,” Bucky sighs, clenching and unclenching his fists in midair. “Don’t you remember—Thanksgiving at Peggy’s?”

“I remember being significantly intoxicated.”

“So you don’t remember what happened? Or the text you sent me?”

It takes half a second before realization dawns on Sharon. “Oh— _ oh _ ,” her eyes are wide. “I remember that. You never text me back! So—you and Stevie—wait,” her voice lowers and she seems to hunker down as she speaks. “You and  _ Brock _ ?”

“Unfortunately,” Bucky replies. “It was a long time ago,” Less than a year ago, but who’s counting.

Sharon is quiet but she wears a thoughtful expression on her face. Several seconds pass before she speaks again, and each second becomes more and more anxiety inducing for Bucky.

“So that’s why,” Sharon speaks, matter-of-factly. She looks up at Bucky with hardened eyes and a thinly pressed mouth. “Did he hurt you?”

The question seems so simple. Yet, being forced to wrestle with those demons is not something that Bucky can do right now.

“Things ended badly,” Bucky answers, stepping clear over the truth. “He just doesn’t know when to quit.”

“He’s harassing you,” Sharon states plainly. “Does anyone else know about this?”

“It’s not that serious,” Bucky retorts. He knows that it could be much, much worse. The occasional unwanted encounter is nothing compared to what it could be, or what it used to be. “No one else needs to get involved. It’s fine.”

“He’s bad news, Bucky,” Sharon starts again. “But if that’s what you want, fine. I just…don’t want anything bad to happen because of him.”

“I can handle it.” Bucky asserts. “Just…don’t tell anyone else, please. I’m not exactly…no one knows, alright.”

“None of your brothers or anything?” Sharon questions.

Bucky lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “I’m workin’ on it.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Sharon assures him. “Secret’s safe.”

Bucky quietly thanks her and hopes that one day, it won’t have to be so much of a secret.

**____________________________________________________________________**

Steve comes into the room and drops his backpack on the floor, sighing with relief as the tension eases out of his shoulders. He looks over to Sam, sprawled out across the futon with about four different notebooks. “Does the last half of fall semester always try to murder you?”

“Yep. But you're not gonna let it. You're too scrappy for that,” his roommate says, without looking up from his notes. Steve laughs and picks his backpack up, but only carries it as far as the desk, where he sits down and starts sorting through his assignment papers and planner. Four papers, three group projects, and far, far too many tests, and—look, he really, really tries to stay focused on studying, but…it's all too much. 

“I need a break,” he says, after about an hour of diligently working on his next paper for Dr. Munroe’s class.

“You just had one last week.” 

“That's not what I meant. I just need to…take tonight off,” he murmurs, voice trailing off as he looks at his phone for the first time in an hour. Three snapchats.

One from Clint (a crow perched on top of the university seal, head tilted; captioned “this sketchy motherfucker….”).

One from Wanda (her long pale forearm covered in purple and blue paint; captioned “whoopsie”).

One from Bucky (a blurry selfie, his hair pulled back into a messy bun, wearing a black hoodie with his fraternity letters, a bemused smile on his face; captioned “bout to go fuck up this committee meeting lol”).

Steve can't help but smile at the goofy face of his boyfriend—and wow. That thought doesn't get old. Not at all. 

“Hey, would it be okay if Bucky came over for a while? Just to watch movies?”

Sam looks up from his homework, titling his head to the side as he considers it, then shrugs. “Yeah, that's fine. I gotta go over to Misty’s anyway in a little bit, for this…stupid group project, so it's whatever.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

“Don't mention it.”

He quickly types out a message. 

_ Good luck at your meeting! You're gonna do great! :) Also, do you want to come over and watch a movie after? You still haven't seen Big Hero 6, right? _

He goes back to his laptop, but he's barely touched it when his phone chimes.

_ yea that sounds cool- im actually done already, but i gotta drop some stuff off at my room first and then ill come over?? _

_ Sounds good. :) _

By the time Bucky arrives, Sam has already gone and Steve has already made two bowls of popcorn. Bucky walks right in, having probably gotten used to Steve and Sam never ever locking the door. Steve grins excitedly and crawls over all the junk on his floor (mostly clothes and sketchbooks) to get to Bucky. Though, once Steve gets a good look at Bucky, he knows something’s not right.

He’s not smiling, for one. And there’s something about his eyes that makes him look more tired than Steve has ever seen him.

“Bad meeting?” Steve asks.

Bucky shakes his head and paints a smile on his face. “Coulda been worse,” Immediately, he perks up, kisses Steve’s cheek and walks over to the futon. “It’s fine.”

Steve knows for sure that something is one-hundred percent not fine.

“You can start telling me about whatever happened while I set the movie up.” Steve can almost  _ feel _ Bucky grumbling as he removes his shoes and tucks them underneath the futon. Steve grabs the DVD from his desk and pops it open. “So?”

“So, nothing,” Bucky mutters. Steve doesn’t even dignify his answer with a response. Bucky gets the hint. “So…I sort of ran into my ex,” Steve, who has never met Bucky’s ex-boyfriend and still has absolutely nothing nice to say, keeps his mouth closed so that Bucky will continue. “He said some rude shit, like he always does. And it pissed me off—and I didn’t want to tell you, because then you’d get pissed off—and then we’d both be pissed off together and—”

“—Buck,” Steve steadies his voice as he inserts the disc into the player. “What’d he say to you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bucky replies. Steve whips his head around and opens his mouth to respond but Bucky keeps going. “He’s literally the scum of the earth and everything that comes out of his mouth is terrible, but I don’t want to talk about him, okay? I’m here with you and…and I just want to have a good night. With you.”

Steve fiddles with the DVD case, opening and closing it as he contemplates his response. Because, god he doesn’t want to drop it, he wants to show Bucky that he cares and that he doesn’t like the fact that his ex is still approaching him. Steve still doesn’t know what exactly this asshole did to Bucky, but he knows that it really hurt Bucky, and that he still struggles with whatever happened. But Steve can tell from the look on Bucky’s face that he’s exhausted, and that he’s done. Steve folds.

“Okay,” He plops down on the futon and Bucky slowly lowers himself down beside him. Steve starts the movie and then glances up at Bucky. “But I just want you to know that I’d kick his ass if you wanted me to. Just say the word.”

Bucky smiles that bright smile again, but there’s something else behind it, something that reminds Steve of sadness but doesn’t quite touch it. Bucky kisses Steve’s forehead and sighs softly against his skin. “I know you would, Stevie.”

Steve ends up sitting behind Bucky for the rest of the movie. Bucky lays his head on Steve’s lap, with his legs bent at the knee on the futon. While he watches the movie, Steve slowly unravels the messy bun on the top of Bucky’s head and runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair, gently untangling the knots. His hair smells distinctly of cologne and cigarettes and Steve doesn’t mention the cigarettes, because he knows how to pick his battles and that one isn’t worth it tonight. Still, he uses his fingers to massage Bucky’s scalp, his temples, and right behind his ears where he likes it the most. It’s when Steve begins softly tugging at Bucky’s earlobes that Bucky sighs and looks up at him.

“We’re never gonna get through a single movie if you keep that up,” Bucky is almost…pouting? But his eyes—they’re saying something completely different.

“Is it making you tired?”

“No,” Bucky groans. “It’s making me…” Instead of finishing his sentence, Bucky tentatively reaches upward and laces his fingers behind Steve’s neck. It takes Steve half a second to get it—he leans down and presses his lips against Bucky’s in a slow, somewhat clumsy, upside down kiss. It’s a little bit messy but that doesn’t deter Steve, whose tongue has already found its way into Bucky’s mouth.

Sounds of the movie are lost to them as they kiss. Steve pulls away, only to give Bucky half a second to sit up. Then he’s pushing Steve down against the futon and climbing on top of him to start kissing him all over again. Steve is smiling against Bucky’s mouth, tugging at the strings in his hoodie.

“You never told me how it made you feel,” He whispers between kisses. “Did I hit a sweet spot?”

“Are we twelve?” Bucky grins, raising one eyebrow.

Steve mimics his expression. “Did I?” He reaches up again and tucks Bucky’s hair behind his ear, gently tugging his earlobe again. Bucky closes his eyes and turns to nuzzle Steve’s hand, kissing his palm. Steve smiles. “I did.”

“You’re such a punk,” Bucky rolls his eyes, still grinning. Steve just marvels at him because—wow, he’s so beautiful and his smile always,  _ always _ lights up his face. And thank goodness he’s smiling again. “Also—we cannot be making out on Sam’s futon. He’ll kill me—he’ll kill us both.”

“So,” Steve glances up, feigning innocence. “We’re gonna make out in my bed?”

Bucky pauses, biting his lower lip. Then he nods, climbing up off the futon and offering both hands to help Steve up. 

“Yeah. We're gonna do that.”

Steve flops dramatically on his bed, holding out his arms for Bucky. “ _ Finally _ . Get over here.” His boyfriend pauses for just a second before sitting down beside him, winding his arms around Steve as he leans in to kiss him, soft, sweet, and shy.

It only takes a second for Steve to take this somewhere south of sweet.

Bucky is lying flat on his back with Steve straddling his waist, kissing Bucky with a heated urgency that doesn’t go unnoticed. Steve tries to keep his urges in check, but when he feels Bucky growing harder underneath him, he can’t keep his hips from grinding forward. He swoops back in and starts kissing Bucky like he’s never kissed him before, ravenous like a man who's gone weeks without food. Every time Bucky so much as  _ touches _ Steve it sends sparks through his body, like he’s never been touched properly until Bucky started touching him.

So when Bucky lifts Steve up (like he’s weightless, really) and lays him flat on the bed, Steve closes his eyes and thanks every god that had a hand in making this perfect man. Bucky asks Steve what he wants and Steve just tells him that he wants whatever Bucky wants, that he wants to feel good. Bucky quietly nods and starts again by kissing Steve—he starts with Steve’s mouth, then his neck. Bucky strips Steve out of his t-shirt and kisses his chest then, trailing his lips all the way down to the buckle of Steve’s jeans. He glances up at Steve as if to ask if this is okay, and Steve nods quickly because it’s more than okay—there’s no way he can explain to Bucky just how much he wants this, just how much he craves it. There’s just something about being this close to Bucky, someone he trusts, someone he  _ wants _ . There’s something about feeling open and vulnerable, and just knowing that he’ll be taken care of.

The whole time Bucky is down there, he’s holding Steve’s hand, clutching it. His other hand slides along the length of Steve’s cock, meeting his lips as he sucks and licks. Steve is gripping Bucky’s hand so tight that he’s afraid he might actually hurt him, and he keeps whispering  _ fuck _ under his breath like a prayer. And he doesn’t know how loud he’s gotten until he’s coming, and Bucky is swallowing, and the whole room seems to be spinning and refocusing around him.

Bucky pulls the comforter up to Steve’s waist and kisses his neck softly, resting his head on a pillow. Steve turns on his side, albeit slowly, to face Bucky. He kisses Bucky full on the mouth, tasting himself all over Bucky’s lips. Steve wraps one arm around Bucky and shuffles closer to him, burying his face in Bucky’s neck. Bucky is hard as a rock and pressing against Steve’s stomach, throbbing. Steve looks up, blinking slowly.

“Should I take care of that?”

Bucky shakes his head. “As if you’re gonna be awake long enough,” he jokes. Steve frowns.

“Buck,” he begins, “I…you know I want to, right? Like, it’s not a task or anything. I want to.”

“I know,” Bucky answers. He rests his hand on Steve’s hip for a few seconds but then decides to grab a fistful of the comforter instead. “It’s just…you don’t  _ have _ to.”

Steve nods. “Just like you don’t  _ have _ to do any of those things for me. It’s the same,” Steve pauses, choosing his words carefully. “You know you can tell me if you’re ever not into it.” Steve has to make sure that he’s not the only one who wants to do this, because as much as he enjoys sex, if Bucky doesn’t like it, or doesn’t want it, then it’s not something worth pushing.

Bucky sighs, grabbing at the comforter again. “I’m—I’m just more comfortable doing stuff for you. I mean don’t get me wrong, I  _ like _ …things.”

“Okay,” Steve says. That’s a start. “what kinds of things do you like, then?”

After hearing this question, Bucky seems to freeze up. He opens his mouth once or twice like he wants to answer, but nothing comes out. After a few seconds, Steve just kisses him and then starts over.

“We don’t have to talk about it right this second,” he holds Bucky’s hand, lacing their fingers, “I have an idea? Why don’t you do something like, make a list of all the things you like? And maybe we can go over it together, then maybe try some of it?” He suggests. “Would that help?”

“I think so, yeah.” Bucky answers. “Can you make a list too? That way I’ll know what you like?”

Steve nods. “Of course, yeah,” He grins, staring up at Bucky with slow-blinking eyes. “Well, you already know one thing I like.”

“That at the top of the list?” Bucky teases, snaking his arm around Steve’s waist.

Sighing contentedly, Steve nuzzles into Bucky’s chest again, still smiling. “Not quite—it’s up there, though.” 

Bucky is quiet for a long time, slowly running his fingers along Steve’s sides underneath the blanket. His touch is soft and careful, like he’s thinking about every single move that he’s making. Steve can almost  _ hear _ the gears turning in Bucky’s mind—he knows Bucky is always overthinking, always worrying. In quiet moments like these, Steve just wishes that Bucky could find the same peace that he’s affording Steve, simply with the touch of his hands. 

After a while, Bucky finally speaks again. And what he says chills Steve to the bone. 

“I hope you don’t think that I…that I don’t  _ want _ to have sex with you,” Bucky tells him, in the softest, most timid voice. “because I do. I really,  _ really _ do. I just…need some time to work up to other stuff, that’s all. I just didn’t want you to be mad.”

Steve, whose chest has grown heavier with every word, just nods and holds onto Bucky just a little bit tighter. “Take all the time you need—we don’t have to rush. I would never be mad at you for that.”

Bucky sounded almost scared, saying those words. Sounded like a child confessing to a crime, knowing they’d be punished. Doesn’t he know that they have all the time in the world, that Steve would never pressure him into a single thing, that he’s  _ allowed _ to take things as slow as he needs? In that moment, Steve realizes that no—Bucky probably doesn’t know any of these things, or else he wouldn’t have said what he said. Steve realizes that something bad—something very bad—had to have happened for Bucky to be afraid to set his own boundaries. But Bucky doesn’t respond, so Steve doesn’t breach the subject again. Instead, he lies against Bucky’s chest in the dark of the room, while the forgotten movie plays in the background. Steve knows that Bucky is overthinking—again—and he wishes that there was some way he could tell Bucky that he didn’t have to, that things would be good, and that he didn’t have to worry about something as arbitrary as this. Steve wishes that he could find a way to tell Bucky that he cares about him so much,  _ too  _ much sometimes, and that it wouldn’t matter if they never had sex again, wouldn’t matter if they only ever held hands, because Steve is just happy enough being with Bucky. But Steve is arguably terrible at talking about his emotions, so he tries something a little different. 

“Buck,” he whispers. “Tomorrow, after we’re done with classes…I want to take you out. On a date.”

“Hmm?” Bucky’s eyes flutter open. He glances down at Steve, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Really, now?”

“Yeah,” Steve answers. “Just…me and you, tomorrow. Like a picnic. We can go to the park—it’s not too cold yet. Would you like that?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, I would,” he grins. “You gonna pack the sandwiches, huh?” he teases.

Steve smiles and rolls his eyes. “I’ll pack the sandwiches. What’s your favorite?”

“Ham & Swiss.”

“Noted.”

The next day, Steve does exactly what he said he’d do.

He’s never planned a real picnic before but he does his best for Bucky. He packs enough sandwiches to feed an army, picks the quietest, most secluded part of the park, and even makes sure to bring the comfiest blanket to spread out on the grass. When Bucky arrives, the look on his face is nothing short of amazing. He gazes at the makeshift picnic in awe, looking as if Steve’s brought him to the most expensive restaurant in town. He gets down on his knees and kisses Steve shamelessly, not even sparing a single glance around the park, not even to see if anyone is looking. Bucky is smiling and laughing and Steve is thanking the god he used to pray to because—wow, Bucky should  _ always _ be smiling. Who would let such a beautiful smile be hidden? Who could ever take that smile away from him?

On this cold November afternoon, Steve hopes that he’s able to keep Bucky smiling for a long,  _ long _ time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking around everyone! I'll definitely try to get updates out sooner!


	18. Chapter 18

“Steve.”

“No.”

“…Steve, you have to.”

“No, I don’t. I’m not going.”

Natasha stands in the middle of Steve’s room, still wearing her black parka and grey wool scarf, tugged all the way up to her nose. She pulls the scarf down to her neck to show that she’s sporting a frown that could kill.

Steve sniffs and rubs his nose. “You’re wasting your time,” he mutters.

Natasha’s frown deepens. “If your mother knew that you were lying in bed, refusing to go to the health center, she’d kill you. She’d kill _me_ for allowing it.”

“I’m fine,” Steve argues. He _is_ fine. It’s just a cold—he’s not about to let a cold defeat him.

Looking as irritable as ever, Natasha shifts her weight onto one hip and folds her arms across her chest. “You look like Rudolph—you’re not fine.”

Steve pulls his blanket up to his chin and sits achingly still. He vaguely recognizes that he’s being immature, but he’s too tired to care. He hasn’t been able to take a deep breath in two days. He’s exhausted.

Natasha scowls at Steve. “So, you’re just going to lie here and suffer, then?”

“Seems like it.”

“Right,” Natasha sighs. “So, I’ll have Pegs bring some soup or something later.”

“Don’t need it,” Steve tells her. “I’ll pick something up on my way to class.”

Natasha balks at his response. “You’re going to _class_?”

Steve lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “Yeah?” He answers. “I’m not gonna miss class over a cold. It’s the end of the semester, I need all the help I can get.”

Natasha stands unconvinced. “Rogers—it’s a whopping 10 degrees outside and you _already_ look like death,” she brashly points out. Steve finds himself frowning. “You’re really gonna chance this?”

Steve sits up then, glaring at Natasha from his perch. “I’m not a kid, Nat. I can handle a cold,” he says. “I swear I’ll be fine,” he tosses off the blanket for good measure and ignores the chill that comes with the air in his room. “I’ll be fine.”

“Whatever you say, Steve.” Natasha checks the time on her phone and releases a deep, exasperated sigh. “Try not to die. I’ll check on you later.”

“Right,” Steve manages, saluting weakly.

He waits until Natasha clears out of the room before he collapses onto his mattress again, taking in a shaky, rattling breath. Steve closes his eyes and tries to gather enough energy to get out of bed.

It takes Steve ten whole minutes to pull it together and drag himself to the bathroom to take a shower. The steam gives him a short reprieve from his stuffy nose and for the fifteen minutes he’s in the shower, he can breathe. However, he’s not at all excited about the way that his nose drains the entire time. It’s beyond disgusting.

When Steve goes back in his room to get dressed, he bundles up. He puts on a long-sleeved shirt, with a t-shirt on top, with a WWU sweater on top of _that_. Then, he wraps up in the longest, warmest scarf he owns (courtesy of Wanda Maximoff), two pairs of socks, and a pair of wool lined gloves that his mom had sent him earlier that week. He braces for the cold, but nothing could prepare him for the sharpness of the icy wind as it cuts his face.

As if trudging through the snow is not enough, the sidewalks are slick with ice. Steve spends half of the journey to class sliding, slipping, and trying not to fall and end up on the WWU Wipeouts Twitter page. Once he finally gets to class, he sits toward the back and strips out of at least two layers before he can start participating.

Steve tries his best to concentrate but his head is fuzzy, and his professor’s voice seems so far away. Her muffled voice makes Steve feel like he’s underwater. He tries to shake it off, to take deep breaths and perk up during the lecture, but none of it helps. It isn’t until halfway into class, when his professor comes to the back of the room and stops at his desk, that Steve realizes just how bad he really feels.

“Steven,” Dr. Munroe begins, watching him warily as she leans over his desk. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Yeah,” Steve sniffs, resisting the urge to wipe his nose. “Why do you ask?”

Dr. Munroe’s eyebrows go up. “You seem feverish and you’re sweating profusely,” she pauses. “Steven, I think you should go home. I’ll email the notes from today, as well as the Prezi and the readings.”

Steve frowns, almost pouts. “But I— “

“—Go home.” Dr. Munroe stops him. “This is not a negotiation.”

Steve realizes that there’s no _way_ he’d win an argument with Dr. Munroe. He nods once, defeated, and starts packing up his things. She pats him on the shoulder once, tells him to feel better and get some rest, then returns to the front of the room where she brings the rest of the class to attention again. Steve slips out of the back door unnoticed.

He doesn’t stop for food like he said he would, feeling that the walk would be too much trouble anyway. Plus, his breaths are coming in shorter and all he wants right now is to crawl back into bed and sleep for a decade.

When Steve gets back to his room, he drops all his things at the door and climbs right back up into bed. He hears his phone dinging in the pocket of his coat, but he’s too tired to climb all the way back down to get it, so he just closes his eyes and hopes the dinging eventually stops. Suddenly feeling a chill, Steve tugs his blankets up to his chin. He ignores his shallow breaths and rattling chest as he drifts off.

His rest is fitful. He vaguely remembers Sam coming into the room at some point, and Steve is almost certain that Sam tells him to call Bucky, but he can’t even be bothered to get out of bed and get his phone. He tells himself that he’ll call Bucky when he feels well enough to get up. Until then, Steve lies there in a hazy, sick sleep.

**___________________________________________________________________________________________**

It’s 7am when Sam and Bucky leave the gym. Bucky emerges with a hat pulled all the way down on his head to shield his scalp from the frigid air. This time, at least, he’d remembered to bring sweatpants with him so that his legs wouldn’t freeze off, and so that Sam wouldn’t crack anymore jokes about his “aggressive whiteness”. Bucky’s heard enough of those for a lifetime.

The only reason that Bucky had even decided to work out this morning was because he was looking for a way to ignore and maybe even ease the stress he’s been under. With Winter Formal quickly approaching, Bucky is barely hanging onto his own sanity. He still doesn’t have a date, and his brothers won’t stop pestering him about it. He had it in his right mind to go stag, but he’d never hear the end of that, either.

“Why don’t you ask Natasha?” Sam suggests. “I’m sure she’d go.”

“I’m not taking Steve’s best friend, who’s dating his ex-girlfriend, to prom.”

Sam shrugs. “I mean, yeah it sounds weird if you put it like that,” he shoves his hands down into the pockets of his pea coat. “I think you’re making this a big deal when it doesn’t have to be. I mean…you could always just go with Steve. Seriously.”

“I can’t do that.” Bucky says, matter-of-factly. He almost hates himself for evens saying it. “You know I want to, but I just…” his voice trails off, carried away with the icy wind. “You know.”

“I get it,” Sam tells him. “Have you talked to him about it?”

“…I’m waiting for the right time?”

Sam huffs out a laugh. “Well that sounded like bullshit,” He chuckles. “It won’t kill you to talk to him. He’s your _boyfriend_. Communication is key and all that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Bucky grumbles. He’s been beating himself up more than enough. Now, he thinks, he’s waited too long to talk to Steve about formal, about how Bucky can’t take Steve as his date, about how he might have to take a girl, and about how much he feels like an idiot and wishes he didn’t have to be afraid. Yeah, it’s just about too late to have _that_ conversation.

“What doesn’t kill you…”

“Yeah, Sam—I got it.”

Bucky spends all of breakfast mulling over the Winter Formal situation. Sam doesn’t bring it up again, but it’s all that Bucky can think about. Even his full plate of bacon and eggs can’t distract him.

Bucky has gone to Winter Formal every year since he joined Sig Delt. And each year, he went with a girl, even when he had been dating Rumlow. _That_ had been a fiasco, to say the least. Each year he had been miserable and each year his date ditched him _because_ he was miserable. Every year, Bucky watches all his brothers with their dates, happy, laughing, hugging and kissing, and he sits wondering why that couldn’t be _him_. Bucky loves dancing—it’s part of the reason why he used to go to the bars so much. He got to dance and, for the most part, no one judged. No one cared. He loves music, loves the atmosphere of it all—dancing has always been so _freeing_. Unfortunately, at the formal events, Bucky never danced. Everyone was always watching. Always. So, Bucky always sat for the whole night, drinking the spiked punch or whatever Dugan brought in his flask. It was always easier that way.

This year, Bucky wishes things could be different. He wishes he could dance with Steve on that floor. And even though Steve’s a horrible dancer, it wouldn’t matter, because they’d be there together, and everything…everything was just better when they were together.

And yet…

He ends up texting Sharon—he has to have a date.

_(7:59) are u goin w/anyone 2 formal?_

Bucky sends the text quickly, regretting it right after it’s gone. Sharon answers quickly.

_(8:00) nope. Some of my sisters are going in a group so I thought I’d go with them. Why?_

_(8:00) oh_

_well_

_i kind of need a date so like_

_could u go w/me_

_(8:03) I mean, sure I can go with you. As long as Steve’s okay with it. What’d he say when you told him you were asking me? Haha_

Well, fuck.

Bucky sets his phone down on the table and rests his face in his hands.

“I fucked up,” he groans under his breath, sinking down in his chair. “Sam?”

“Huh?” Sam has a mouthful of bacon and is in the process of eating a waffle twice the size of his face.

“Hypothetically,” Bucky started. “If you were Steve, and…and I asked a girl to go to formal with me before I told you about it, what would you do?”

“Hypothetically?” Sam repeats after swallowing his food.

Bucky, hands still over his face, answers. “Purely hypothetical.”

Sam chuckles lightly, shaking his head as he picks up his cup of orange juice. “You’re on your own with that one, Buck.”

Bucky groans even louder, dragging his palms across his face. “I fucked _up_.”

“Yeah.” Sam responds, still laughing. “Communication, bro. Communication.”

It takes Bucky over two hours to figure out what to say to Steve. By the time Bucky texts him, he’s in the middle of a desk shift.

_(10:37) ok so u kno how winter formal is coming up? right so_

_i mean u kno tht im not out to my brothers yet so like i asked Sharon to go with me. i feel like an idiot for not running it by u first._

_i fucked up_

Moments later, Bucky’s hall director takes a dig at him for using his phone at the front desk. Bucky reluctantly puts his phone away and gets back to work—safety checks, inventory, and a bunch of other boring shit that he can’t concentrate on, because he’s too busy worrying about what Steve’s going to say when he finds out.

Bucky has class immediately after his shift. He rushes to class and grabs a seat in the back so that his professor doesn’t notice that he’s a few minutes late. All through class, he’s staring at his phone, waiting for Steve to text him back and respond. But another hour passes and still nothing. Bucky is trying his best not to freak out, but he’s freaking out anyway.

During his 45-minute break between classes, Bucky goes to the student union to grab lunch. He spends about five of those minutes poking around at his chicken salad while he stares at his phone, appetite lost.

“Hey!”

Bucky looks up from his salad and sees Wanda and Pietro quickly approaching. He sets his phone on the table, face down, and plasters a convincing smile on his face.

“Can we sit?” Pietro asks, motioning to the chairs.

Nodding quickly, Bucky’s grin widens. “Yeah, for sure.”

Pietro immediately pulls up a chair across from Bucky, but Wanda pauses for just a second before taking a seat next to him. Her expression is calm, but otherwise unreadable as she eats her burrito.

Bucky clears his throat. “So, what's up with you guys?”

Pietro and Wanda start speaking at the same time.

“Not a lot--”

“I'm trying to get ready for finals, but this idiot keeps testing my patience--”

“What?”

“Trying to get me to go to an ‘ugly sweater party’ for that… Kappa Beta fish--”

“Kappa Nu Beta,” Pietro says in a pained voice. Wanda shoots him an annoyed glare before continuing.

“He's trying to get me to go to an ‘ugly sweater party,’ which I'm against, for Kappa Nu Beta fish, which I'm also against, so I can be recruited, which I'm _very_ against.”

“It's not a recruitment event if it's in December, it's raising money for Warm Up WWU, they knit sweaters and collect coat donations for homeless people!”

“If these organizations actually cared about that, maybe they would work on something with a little more impact.”

They lapse into a long argument about the systemic causes of poverty, and Bucky drifts away. It's weirdly comforting white noise, even when Wanda goes into full lecture mode. He picks at his food and tries his hardest to keep from checking his phone, with limited success.

“Anyway, ugly sweater parties are stupid, and I will not pay five dollars to sit in a house full of people who decided to shop at the Good Will for irony. So, Bucky, have you talked to Steve lately?”

Bucky almost chokes on a mouthful of chicken salad. It doesn't save him from answering the question. Wanda looks at him expectantly, while Pietro looks baffled. “Uh.. no. Why?”

She shrugs, balling up her food trash and shoving it toward her brother's side of the table. “Just wondering. I haven't heard from him in a couple days, but I thought you might have. He must be pretty busy.”

Bucky nods slowly, but doesn't say anything. He looks over to his phone again. Still no reply from Steve.

Wanda elbows her brother, and he mumbles something under his breath in that language they both share. “Come on, Pietro. We're going to go visit dad in his office, see if we can convince him to come out and be a person.”

Pietro nods and gets up, grinning at Bucky. “See you later, Barnes.”

“Yeah, catch you later, man,” Bucky says, waving goodbye to them both. As soon as they vanish out the union doors, he's opened his phone and started typing up another message.

_(2:22 pm) hey man like i get if ur mad at me but ur ok right??? like Wanda says she hasnt heard from u & like u ok????? _

_(2:22 pm) u dont have to not b mad but just tell me ur ok_

There is no reply.

Bucky begins to panic. He calls Steve’s phone. No answer.

He calls Sam next. It takes four rings, but Sam eventually picks up.

“This better be good, dude. I had to walk out of Dr. McCoy’s class and you know how he—“

“—Have you talked to Steve lately?” Bucky quickly asks.

Sam pauses for a moment. “Not really. I mean, I saw him today, kind of. He was asleep when I got back from breakfast, and still asleep after I got back from my first class.”

“He has three classes today—that’s not like him.” Bucky says.

“People skip class all the time, Buck. Plus, finals are coming up. He probably pulled an all-nighter or something and wants to sleep it off—who knows.”

That didn’t sound convincing.

Bucky spends the rest of the day in a panic. He has a 6pm class that day, but he skips it because he can’t spend one more minute not knowing if Steve is alive, if he hates him, or both. So, after his last class lets out, instead of heading to his 6pm class, Bucky travels across campus to Steve’s dorm. He walks inside and finds Darcy at the front desk. When Bucky asks about Steve, she says she hasn’t seen him all day. Bucky rushes up to the 4th floor and as soon as he reaches Steve’s door, he knocks five times in a row.

“Steve?” Bucky knocks on the door again, but there’s no answer. He pulls out his phone and dials Steve’s number. On the other side of the door, he hears Steve’s familiar ringtone, his favorite David Bowie song. Bucky frowns. “Steve, I know you’re in there.”

Suddenly, Bucky hears a loud _thud_ on the other side of the door.

“Steve?” he calls again.

After a few seconds, Bucky hears slow footsteps coming toward the door. He steps back from the door just in time for Steve to open it.

“Bucky?” Steve says in a raspy, sleepy voice. “I didn’t…I didn’t know you were coming over.”

Bucky slowly gives Steve the onceover. “You didn’t answer your phone…” his voice trails off as he stares at Steve’s red, almost puffy face. Steve sneezes once, and then the sneeze becomes a ragged, rattling cough. Bucky’s eyes narrow. “Steve.”

“I’m fine.” Steve replies, but keeps coughing, proving that he is definitely _not fine._ “It’s just a cold.” He leaves the door open and walks into the room, plopping down on the futon and dragging a blanket off his bed before wrapping it around himself.

Bucky sighs, exasperated, and follows Steve inside. Once inside the room, Bucky starts stripping out of his coat immediately. “Christ—it’s like 80 degrees in here, babe. Do you really need that blanket?”

Steve shrugs. “I was cold.”

“You’re cold?” Bucky repeats. “And sneezing, _and_ coughing like a 60-year-old smoker?” Bucky walks over to the futon. “And you were sleeping this whole time? I sent you like five texts.”

“I was tired,” Steve says. “I haven’t checked my phone all day—I’m sorry.”

After hearing that, Bucky is almost relieved. That means that Steve didn’t read his text about Sharon but it _also_ means that Bucky’s going to have to explain this whole thing face to face, which he is _not_ prepared for.

“Why’d you text me five times though?”

“I kinda wanted to talk to you about something but,” he pauses, still watching Steve. He’s wrapped up in a blue comforter but sweating bullets, after complaining about being cold. Something is amiss. “It’s not important. Right now, I think we need to go to the health center. Have you taken anything? Ibuprofen? Dayquil? Anything?”

Steve shrugs. “It’ll work itself out.”

“Steve, this is like the most obvious case of the flu—it will not work itself out.”

“I do _not_ have the flu.”

Bucky frowns. He sits down on the futon beside Steve, who’s becoming increasingly impudent and won’t even make eye contact. “Coughing, sneezing, fatigue, chills—and I’m pretty sure you’ve got a fever, because you’re wearing a comforter in an 80-degree room.”

Steve sighs heavily and sinks deeper into the futon. “…even if it _might_ be the flu, there’s no cure-all for it anyway, so there’s no point in going to the health center.”

Bucky reaches out to touch Steve’s forehead, then his cheeks. He’s _scorching_ hot. Bucky keeps his face neutral and then pulls his hand away. “They can give you antiviral medication _and_ give you something to bring your fever down.”

Steve, visibly irritated, sighs again. “You’re not going to let this go.”

“It’s not likely.”

Heaving out a long breath, Steve massages his temples. “Can’t I just…drink some herbal tea and call it a night?”

“And risk getting sicker?” Bucky points out. Steve opens his mouth to protest but Bucky holds up one hand to stop him. “Listen—I can tell you’re not _thrilled_ about the whole idea. But I’m worried. And I just want to make sure you’ll okay. So, let’s just dot our I’s, cross our t’s, and get through a 15-minute doctor visit, alright?” He reaches into Steve’s comforter with both hands and pulls Steve toward him. “And then we can come back, cuddle, and watch a Christmas movie or something. You love Christmas movies.”

“I do,” Steve almost grumbles. “You’ll still stay even though I’m sick?”

“Gives me even more reason to,” Bucky kisses the top of Steve’s head. “I’ll take care of ya.”

Finally giving in, Steve rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky can hear the air rattling around in Steve’s chest, which is worrisome, but he stays on the futon with Steve for a few more minutes.

Steve takes forever to get dressed. Bucky can tell that he’s having trouble breathing because every few seconds, he pauses, tries to take a deep breath and starts coughing. Once the coughing fit is over, he’s back to pulling on his layers upon layers of clothing. Bucky grabs Steve’s inhaler from his desk drawer and shoves it into Steve’s hand before they leave the room.

They take the shuttle to the health center and Steve is uncharacteristically quiet the whole ride there. His brow is drawn together, mouth pressed into a thin line, and he’s staring down at his gloved hands, unblinking. Bucky wonders what he’s thinking, but he’s not sure he should ask. He’s never seen Steve like this before and that worries him even more.

At the health center, Steve is monosyllabic and serious, especially when answering the nurse’s questions. The nurse takes Steve’s checks Steve’s ears, his throat, takes blood pressure, temperature, and a nose swab, which is makes Steve _visibly_ uncomfortable. When the nurse leaves to go test the swab, Steve lowers his eyes to the floor, but still seems to finally relax.

“Hey,” Bucky finally speaks. “You alright?”

Steve shrugs, glancing up. “Yeah,” he answers. “It’s just…doctors, y’know?” That’s all he says. He goes back to staring at the floor.

Bucky folds his own hands in his lap and quietly waits for the nurse to come back. Minutes later, the doctor on call shows up. She’s very warm and calmly explains to Steve that he does in fact have the flu.

“You’ll be fine, Steve,” the doctor tells him. “We’re going to set you up with some Tamiflu and some ibuprofen, okay? Anywhere you’d like the prescription sent?”

“The pharmacy here is fine.” Steve answers.

“Alright—now remember. Lots of fluids and plenty of rest. Might want to email your professors too, tell them you’ll be out for a few days.”

Steve nods once. The nurse comes back in with two pills—Tamiflu and ibuprofen—and a handful of papers. Prescriptions and a packet that explains the flu and how to treat it. Steve hands the packet to Bucky while he goes to the Health Center pharmacy station to drop off his prescription. Steve sits while they wait, obviously exhausted. Bucky plops down beside him, still watching him like a hawk.

“You uh—you really don’t like doctors, huh?”

Steve shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t like places that remind me of hospitals—it’s a long story, so maybe we can talk about it when the room’s not spinning.”

“Are you gonna throw up or something?” Bucky quickly asks.

“Not at this very moment.”

Bucky nods. “Want me to email your professors when we get back?”

“Yeah,” Steve takes a deep breath and suppresses a cough. “You’re great, you know? Too good for me.”

Bucky lets out a short laugh. “Pretty sure it’s the other way around.”

“I want to kiss you but I don’t want you to catch the flu.”

Bucky grins and whispers to Steve. “You can kiss my cheek when we get back to your dorm.”

“Oh man, don’t get me excited.” Steve deadpans. Bucky can’t help but laugh again.

When the pharmacy calls Steve’s name, Bucky pays for all his medicine, much to Steve’s displeasure. He complains about it the whole ride back to the dorm. So, when they stop at the mini-store in the dorm adjacent to Steve’s (to buy water, orange juice, Gatorade, and soup of course), Bucky makes sure not to pay for a single thing.

Upon reaching Steve’s dorm room, Bucky makes him take another shower, just to get out of his sweaty clothes and into something different. When Steve’s out of the room, Bucky goes to work. First, he opens a window to let some fresh air into the room. Then, he changes Steve’s sheets and pillowcases, which are probably full of flu germs. He puts fresh sheets on the bed and makes it, even though he knows Steve’s gonna mess it up anyway. Finally, Bucky disinfects _everything_ —the door knobs, Steve’s desk, his bedframe, and even Sam’s side of the room.

When Steve comes back into the room, he scrunches his nose.

“Why is my room cold and lemon-scented?”

“It’s not cold—you have a fever. Put on some pajamas,” Bucky paused. “Also, I cleaned.”

“And changed my sheets?”

“I did your laundry once, before we were even dating.”

“…that’s true.”

Steve, shivering violently, throws on the first pair of sweatpants he sees and a thick, cotton t-shirt. Bucky hands Steve a bottle of water before he climbs back into bed.

“This is what I mean about you being too good for me.” Steve yawns, lying down on his fresh sheets. “You’re like…the man of my dreams.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky grins, marveling at Steve’s dazed voice. He glances up and sees that Steve’s eyes are already closed, but he’s still holding tight onto that water bottle. “Man of your dreams, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steve yawns again, this time longer. He sits up for 30 seconds, long enough to drink the entire bottle of water. Then, he lies down again and closes his eyes. “Are you coming to bed or are you gonna disinfect the buttons on the remote?”

“Already did that, asshole.” Bucky laughs. He immediately strips out of his street clothes and then turns out the lights before he climbs into bed with Steve. “You realize it’s only like, eight o’clock, right?”

“Mhm,” Steve wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist and lays his head on Bucky’s bare chest. “You’re warm.”

“And you’re still sweaty.” Bucky teases, even though Steve doesn’t rise to the bait.

“Hey,” Steve begins. “You never told me what you wanted to talk about.”

Bucky refrains from groaning. “Right,” he says. “…kinda hoping you forgot about that.”

“Lucky for you, my phone’s dead so I have no idea what you even text me.”

“Ah,” Bucky replies.

Steve waits for exactly five seconds before he continues. “So, what was it?”

Bucky closes his eyes and wishes he could un-ask that question. Or that Steve would drift off back to sleep. He's not that lucky.

“Bucky?”

“So, I… I have winter formal coming up.”

“Yeah, Bucky.” Steve says, in a voice that sounds a little more bored than anything else.

Bucky nods once to himself. “Yeah, I know I—well, I know I talked a lot about it, but I never really talked about...me needing a date.” Bucky pauses again, taking a deep breath before he speaks. He stares up at the ceiling, averting his eyes. “I’m just not ready to—well, you know my brothers don’t _know_.” Bucky knows that he’s leaving words out, but he just can’t spit it out.

It's more of a struggle than it should be to just… say it.  “And I can't go alone, so I… I asked Peggy's cousin. Sharon. To go with me.”

Steve is silent—there's no sound in the room but the hum of the air conditioner and the faintly wheezy sound of Steve's breathing. Bucky feels uneasy, even if Steve hasn't yelled at him ( _yet_ ). He should ride the silence out. Let it rest.

He can't.

“Steve? Are you… are you mad at me?”

In a quiet voice, Steve answers simply. “I’m tired, Buck.”

Bucky then realizes that the conversation won’t go any further than this. Steve’s sick with the flu and well...Bucky can’t find the right words, anyway.

“Okay,” Bucky says. Steve doesn’t respond. He pulls the comforter up to his neck and lies there in silence.

Eventually, Steve falls asleep and Bucky...doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the long periods between updates!Teaching is surprisingly time consuming. Hoping to get the next chapter up soon! Thank you all for your wonderful comments :)


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